eggs. (May 11, 06)

I Carried My Family in a Plastic Yellow Case
I've always been a bit of a planner. I was a brat when I was in high school. I hated the fact that we were required to take a religion class, so I did what I could to dictate what subjects we covered in class. During second semester, I had the brilliant idea of egg babies. I'm sure I read about it in Seventeen or YM, or was told about it from some other friend, but I loved the idea. The premise of egg babies was to couple-up people in your class, and together you and your spouse-for-the-week would raise, nurture and love your egg-baby children. Nowadays, at least at the school I taught at for the last six years, the kids have computerized babies that pee themselves, cry, and self-destruct when left unattended for too long. As a teacher, I had to babysit these robots from time to time.
But not at my high school. Not fifteen years ago. Our babies were eggs. They didn't need to be changed. And no one cared if they were neglected. Unless the neglect could work to your advantage.
Well our teacher, Mr. D, loved the idea, stating that it would be a wonderful opportunity to learn responsibility. He was the choir director at our small school, and they were short a staff member, so I am sure he was just assigned this freshman religion class to fill his empty schedule. Therefore, he loved the idea that we would be excited to talk about family issues and he wouldn't have to come up with his own curriculum.
Class was held in the old choir room. We sat on the elevated bleachers waiting to pick names. There were, perhaps, several boys who I was hoping to be coupled with. B.J., of course. I knew that he and I would get married eventually, so why not practice with the egg babies now. Screech was a good friend, or Ted, or Leif -- he was a fox. I know I would've been nervous to talk to him, but he was so pretty to look at, so I put him on my wish list as well.
The girls were instructed to pick names. Jessica had picked Leif. Dawn picked Bryan. Dana picked Chad. Heather picked Ted. Okay, no biggie. Just because my wishlist had been demolished, doesn't mean there weren't good choices left. There were four extra guys in our class, the four guys would be acting as "single fathers", because of course, at a Lutheran school, there would be no "Adam and Steve".
I searched the room for the remaining possible husband candidates: not bad. I could handle Jon or Dave or... it was my turn to pick a name. My future husband's name. If only it was that easy now that I'm thirty. I put my hand into the bowl of names. I grabbed the tiny slip of paper and stared at the name on the paper. Slow motion. My eyes watered. I got hot flashes. I knew I was going to faint. I chose to scream instead, NoooooooooOOOoooooooooOOOO. It was one of those moments when the camera pans up as the protagonist kneals in the rain and raises her fist to God or the gods, or whoever is oppressing her.
My oppressor was Pat. Every school had a Pat. Pat was not socially awkward, he was an oddball --self proclaimed, booger-picking (and eating) sloth, who had the habit of screaming out his sexual desires. He loved airplanes, spit wads, and my friend Jenna. He stalked her. He wrote her love letters on a weekly basis. However, Jenna and Pat were in two totally different leagues.
But now this sloth would be my husband for the week.

I cried.
My friends tried to console me.
I spent my entire study hall period writing lists of reasons why Pat and I could not, under any circumstance, get married.
When the bell rang, I ran to Mr. D's office with my list. He laughed. He said that I was being ridiculous, but the only legitimate reasons for divorce on the list were if he harmed me or my children. Awesome. Abuse.
Now as a child who experienced years of abuse, I realize I should've taken this more seriously, but this was a desperate situation. I couldn't be the girl that married the sloth. I was WAY too insecure already.
So I devised a plan.
That night I went home and told my mom about the project. I asked if we could go to the store to buy some eggs. We bought them. Boiled them. And then my mom had a canary yellow carrying case that held twelve eggs. Perfect. I was an instant mommy with twelve little aborted chicken babies.
The next morning, I arrived on campus and went directly to the old art room. I knew that is where Pat hung out before classes started.
"Hey Pat," I said as I opened the door.
"Whstcha up, Annette," he mumbled, drool rolling down his face.
"I have our babies," I told him. Damnit, did I just say our babies?
"Well, ggosshh. Why are there so many?" he asked and chuckled to himself.
"Ahhh I dont know," I confessed. "I guess I wanted a big family."
"Ok," he complied.
He was standing at the teacher's desk, fumbling with the paintbrushes and high lighters when I gently tossed one of our babies to him. Of course, I made sure that it could not be misconstrued, that I wouldn't be blamed for tossing my first born to my idiot husband.
His fingers quivered. His eyes started spinning around. He tried to control and cradle the young babe. But he couldn't help it. He was Pat.
Fumble. Fumble. Splat!
My first born hit the floor.
"Pat, what in the hell did you do?" I screamed at him. "You killed our baby!"
"It's not dead," he said as he attempted to gingerly piece together little white, boiled egg shells.
"Were done!" I screamed as I slammed the art room door and ran down the hall with an enormous triumphant skip in my step.

During second period religion class, I approached Mr. D with my conundrum.
"He hurt my baby," I said.
"Really," he said as he ran his fingers through his beard.
"Yes, really. He is a danger to me and our other children. I just couldnt spend the rest of my life with a man like him. He can't be trusted."
"Well," he said. "I agree."
REALLY?? My plan worked! Unbelievable!

Mr. D. informed the class that one of the students in the class was preparing to file for a divorce, but that we needed to have a jury decide if it is valid. We were assigned roles jurors, defense lawyer, prosecuting lawyer, and the judge who was able to wear Mr. D's treasured keyboard scarf.
What an educational opportunity for this choir director! Not only did he have the opportunity to teach young minds about love, sex, nurturing, and communication, but he also was able to teach us about the US court system!
After two class periods of deliberations, cross examinations, calling witnesses to the stand, the jurors were unanimous. It was ruled that I could have a divorce, but I was not able to re-marry any of the remaining bachelors. I was destined to a life of being a single mother, carrying for my eleven remaining children. Pat, of course, had to pay child support.
At the end of the week, 60% of the eggs had been smashed against the side of the school building. Several of the guys tried to flush their babies down the toilet. Some people found out the hard way that the eggs they were carrying had not been boiled.
I threw my family into a large bowl for dinner. I added a little mayonnaise, mustard, pickles, ugly judgments, a pinch of hatred and a dash of ignorance.


**side note: I met up with Pat at our ten-year reunion several years ago. I ended up (intentionally) grabbing a chair at the table where he and his wife were sitting. Although I didnt apologize for my childish behavior, the fact that I never thought about how calling him out as a negligent, abusive father might effect him or his reputation, I tried to d what was right. He has his own children now, and a lovely wife. And he doesn't abuse any of them. He is a loving, wonderful dad. I, on the other hand, am still practicing being grown up. I am still making up lies about why I can't be in a relationship.

Currently listening : The Joshua Tree