When people ask me what's the most unpleasant task in creating pysanky, they get surprised when I DON'T say it is blowing out the egg guts. Okay, it gets messy, but I'm not squeamish so it doesn't bother me. No, for me, the most annoying aspect is initially choosing the eggs! I would love to go to a store, pick up a carton of eggs, and know that each and every one will be smooth, big, and perfect, but NOOOO, I have to stand there and open each box to find the one with the best samples, while hoping that nobody will noticed me hunched over the cartons. I feel weird about switching eggs out between boxes, so I avoid doing that unless there are two perfect beauties in separate boxes. Otherwise, it's just pick the box with a good half-dozen keepers and plan to bake cookies with the rest.

So I had this agonized-over box of 18 eggs in the fridge, waiting to be transformed into fabulous works of art (I am nothing if not modest). I was sleeping late the other day, and suddenly my two-year-old (yes, the same one who scattered the tanzanite beads all over the office a couple of weeks ago) appeared at my bedside with an egg in his hand and a huge smile on his face. This couldn't be good. So I tiptoed into the kitchen, expecting the worst. I found it. Seventeen beautiful eggs blending together in a gooey mass on the kitchen floor. The only egg left unbroken was the one my son was holding.

But the story isn't over yet. As I was staring blankly at the mess, my little boy came to stand next to me. He glanced up at me with a sweet smile... ...and then pitched the one remaining egg into the mess.