You Will Have to Make Omelets Again

Corrie had a way of bringing out the artist in me.

She had a way of opening me up when I had closed myself away from so many due to trust issues I’d developed through the years.

In fact, if people wanted to see my real personality, I encouraged them to come to my classroom. I let my personality loose in the classroom, but I still had parts of me locked away. It’s not that I had something controversial or skeletons shut in a closet to hide. I knew, like my son, I did not have a social GPS the way Corrie did. The way most people did.

But, Corrie was also an artist herself. She had an easy way with words verbally and she wanted to write them.

“God looked down on the Earth, and realized it needed a beautiful girl, so He sent you. Then He realized the world needed another beautiful girl, so He sent me to be with you,” she said.

Some mornings those bright blue eyes—as her preschool teacher said, “any Disney princess would envy”—looked at me before gently saying, “Mommy, I’m hungry.” Recently, she went downstairs on her own because she was extremely independent.  She liked foods I didn’t always have to prep for or with her like applesauce, cottage cheese, and fruit.  I would make her bagels with cream cheese because she loved those.

The morning after Corrie died, I played the song “The Next Right Thing” from Frozen II. The advice is so simple that everyone can relate to take the next step or the next choice because I cannot imagine one week from now. It is hard enough to recognize, tomorrow, Wednesday; that will mark three weeks since the worst day of my life.

What do I need to do next? There is a lot to do. Then I find myself forgetting things easily when I think she’ll walk in from outside.

My son, Hayes, walked in yesterday morning, and said, “Mommy, I’m hungry. Can you make an omelet?”

I knew it was coming. I had hoped to avoid it forever.

Corrie hated eggs. She was the world’s pickiest eater, but I could always make something she would eat. With food, it did not matter if she disliked something. She wanted to help make it.

I had taught Corrie and Hayes that cooking itself is an art.

Corrie loved to help me make omelets for John and Hayes every morning. It was easier and healthier than pancakes or donuts every morning. I used to tell Hayes, “How many kids do you know get an omelet before they go to school?”

In true Hayes’s fashion, he looked at me and said, “I don’t know … Does it have mustard?”

Each morning when we made omelets, Corrie wanted to master the one hand crack like I had. I made Corrie use two hands always before she put the egg in the mixing bowl.

”I want to use one hand,” she said.

”Use two hands,” I said.

”But, you use one hand,” she said.

”I have years of experience,” I said.

Corrie had gotten to the point she knew how to crack with two hands, make sure there is not any shell, how much milk to add, and to “break up the sunshines.”  She put it in the pan, and I took over from there.

That was a part of Corrie’s spirit. Besides being stubborn and trying to get her way, she also wanted to give and make things for others. She wanted to be an artist, chef like Princess Tiana, and a storyteller.

I am still trying to understand how someone so intelligent and with so much talent is just gone.

I did not want to make another omelet ever again.

But, my son stood there reminding me of the purpose I still have in this life. He said, “Can you make an omelet?” Inside, I could feel her little hand pull me up and say,

“Come on, Mommy. You will have to make omelets again.”

I did make them just as good and beautiful as they always were.

Hayes said as I was making it, “Can we put mustard in it?”

”Yes, son.”

By Rebecca T. Dickinson, Corrie’s Mom