“Last one in is a rotten egg!” one of my kids screams as they all scramble into the backseat of the Subaru. Then the debate begins on which one is truly the rotten egg. Is it the last one physically in the car? Or the last one to get buckled? I settle the debate: “Mom’s the rotten egg.”
“No! You can’t be the rotten egg! I love you!” My littlest one can be sweet to a fault.
But, being Mom, I really am the rotten egg. I’m first one up in the morning, but I’m the last one to bed. I’m the last one to sit down at the breakfast/lunch/dinner table. I’m the last one to be ready to go when we’re on our way out the door because I’ve been busy getting everyone else ready.
I’m okay with being the rotten egg though. Parenting is tiresome, frustrating, and sometimes even confusing, but I can’t imagine not doing it. So when the kids are racing across the yard, I’ll gladly stand back and be the rotten egg.