For one reason or another, yesterday I decided going to the dermatologist for a yearly check up was just fine with the three boys, and that it would be a learning experience.  So I pulled up to the hospital, where the boys were thrilled with the buttons to open the doors, and the big huge airport like parking lot.  They marveled at the many stairs, and all the different people.  And much to my dismay, upon scaling those large staircases I realized I had 7 eggs in my pocket from my earlier jaunt to the coop.  So, now not only did I have to manage the three boys, in nothing more than my birthday suit and a polka-dotted gown, I also would have to try to not crack the eggs.  I sighed at the obviously humourous challenge and continued the ascend.  They boys needed snacks while we were waiting and to make things easier, I switched Jasper from front slingin’, to back slingin’,  and then there was egg crack number one.  They called my name and the boys oohed and awwed at the scale, the examination table, my gown.  They were curious and miraculously polite.  They sat on the floor and did mazes, loving it so much they were difficult to pry out of the room when I was cleared and good to go.  I tugged on Rowan’s jacket, and wrapped up a baby, and in the mix of it all was cracked egg number two.

We made it to the parking lot, my pockets getting yolky despite my attempts to gracefully empty the shells into the garbage without drawing (any extra) attention to myself.  We drove home, chatting about this and that.  With nothing left on the day’s agenda except the continuation of building the ever so important dogsled.  I took my exit off the highway, and seconds later I saw the lights that every. one. dreads.  Those familiar, terrifying, nauseating, expensive flashing lights.  Yes, I got pulled over.  And not just anywhere, directly in front of my friend’s house, and directly across from another friends work place.  I, did what anyone one would do and I sheepishly smiled and waved.  Turns out my inspection was up, but luckily it wasn’t.  I just never picked up my sticker.  He also wasn’t pleased with the fact that my license was still clearly the side bang Georgia variety of Mariah.  I was grateful he was reasonable, (or maybe he just like the straight down banged version of me better?) and left me off with a warning.  But in the shifty nervousness of it all, yes, egg crack number three occurred.

Heart pounding, white knuckle driving from the aftermath of it all, I headed to the mechanics to pick up my sticker.  Lo and behold, it had been five months since the inspection, and he thought it made more sense to do it again.  Sulking, I headed back to the car, but not before I got my jacket caught on the doorknob, and you guessed it; egg crack number four.

Hmm.. seems as though I’m in need of a good old-fashioned basket.