In honor of Easter, allow me to tell you about why I hate the tradition of dying Easter eggs. Ok, that’s a little harsh…why I STRONGLY DETEST it. Actually, even if you don’t want me to tell you, you know I’m going to ramble on about it, so just get used to it. Grab a cup of coffee (or glass of wine), sit back and relax as I regale you with my timeline of misadventure this year.
Friday 9pm: I start to notice friends posting pictures of their kids dying Easter eggs all over Facebook. I leap to feet, race to the kitchen and throw open the fridge. We have no eggs. We have no egg dye either. Must get eggs and egg dye.
Saturday 9am: Fight crowds at grocery story and stand in front of egg fridge grappling with an earth shattering decision; 18 eggs or a dozen??? In my mind, I am remembering that every single year at least two eggs break in the boiling process and another egg or two breaks while dying. I decide to go with 18.
9:10 am: I am in the grocery line that stretches into the diaper aisle when I remember that nobody in my family eats hard boiled eggs except my daughter anyway. I go back for the dozen.
9:14am: I battle with lady in a robe and bunny slippers for last carton of a dozen eggs. I win, but break 4 eggs in the process. Grab the carton of 18 eggs.
9:32am: I am at the front of the line…finally. And I remember I forgot the Easter egg dying kit.
10:00am: Finally home. Daughter wants to dye eggs immediately. I explain they have to be boiled, cooled, yada, yada, yada. She pouts, I put eggs on to boil.
10:44am: “Mommy, what’s that burning smell?”. I forgot about the eggs. Drive back to store. Repeat above.
1:00pm: After boiling for appropriate amount of time, put eggs in fridge to cool down.
1:02pm: Explain to anxious child that it is too early to dye eggs; eggs must cool.
7pm: Return home after baseball practice, dinner, etc. etc… House reeks of hard boiled eggs.
7:15pm: Ready to dye eggs. Discover we have no vinegar. Modify instructions.
7:20pm: Invite family members to participate in egg dying festivities. Husband suddenly has to go to the bathroom; son sticks iPod earbuds in his ear and sulks; daughter is already eagerly waiting at the table.
7:22pm: Aforementioned daughter tells me I am “doing it wrong” and wails when I put the egg in the pink dye. I step away from the eggs while she happily colors them…alone.
8:00pm: Our eggs look nothing like the ones that friends have proudly posted pictures of on Facebook. Ours are a putrid shade of green and brown as the child has dunked them in every single color. They are adorned with stickers and sparkles and she has given them all names like “Señor Eggcellence” and Bob. Her hands are now bright blue.
9:00pm: Put child to bed, explaining Easter bunny cannot come if she is awake. Translation, “Mommy can not hide eggs if you are not sleeping, kid”.
10:00pm: Child is still pacing the house, saying she is too excited to sleep. Knowing what is in her Easter basket, I try to convince her that there is really nothing to be the that excited about.
11:00pm: Kid is still awake. Mommy scrolls through Facebook for the Easter Eve version of “how spoiled is my kid”. This is similar to the overwhelming number of Christmas Eve Facebook photos that parents post of the grossly obnoxious amount of presents that are sprawled out underneath their tree. Except with Easter baskets.
Midnight: Child mentions she is not still not sleepy. Mommy falls asleep on couch.
Sunday 2 am: Kid is standing over me telling me she still can’t sleep. I walk her back to her bed and promptly fall head first into mine.
4:14am: I awake with a start, realizing that “The Easter Bunny” has not hidden the eggs yet. I crawl (reluctantly) out of bed.
4:17am: I stare at the carton of 18 eggs (not one of which broke, btw) wondering where the hell I am going to hide 18 REAL eggs. I can’t put them too high; they may fall and break. I can’t put them too low; the dogs will find them and eat them. And my oldest is asleep on the couch in the living room, putting an extra difficult spin on the hiding game. I start shoving them in highly predictable places, trying to take note of how many are in each room.
4:23am: I am running out of places.
4:30am: Seriously, this sucks.
4:37am: I am finally done. I crawl back to bed.
4:40am: I can’t fall sleep now.
5:02 am: Ugh!!! You’ve got to be kidding me!!!
5:58am: I have finally fallen asleep.
5:59am: I feel someone standing over me.
“Hi, Mommy! Can we look for Easter eggs now?” How is she so damn chipper on 4 hours of sleep???
“No, go away. It’s too early.”
6:05am: “Is it later now, Mommy?”
6:20am: Child is now asleep at the foot of the bed. I sigh with relief and go back to sleep.
7:07am: “Is it time yet?” I awake with a start to find her hovering. I sigh as I lumber out of bed, but not before kicking my hubby in the leg. “Get up. She wants to look for eggs”
“Ugh,” he groans. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” My ass. He lies like a rug. He was blissfully snoring away the whole time.
7:10am: Wake up the Prince of Preteen Angst. “Your sister is going to get all the eggs,” I taunt him in efforts to get him to wake up.
“I don’t care,” he mumbles.
“Geez, what happened to your competitive streak? Go help your sister look for eggs,” I tell him.
He rolls over on the couch and I hear a muffled reply. “I don’t want to look for eggs.”
“There’s money in them,” I lie.
“Duh. They’re real eggs. How dumb do you think I am?” He goes back to sleep.
7:12am: I let her loose to find 18 eggs by herself.
7:13 am: The dog has found an egg that rolled off the window sill and is eating it, shell and all.
7:21am: All the eggs except for two have been located.
7:22am: Can’t remember where I put them!
7:25am: Found one but where the hell is that last egg???
7:35am: Tearing the house apart, muttering, “I knew I should have written it down.”
7:44am: Daughter points out that the missing egg is the one the dog ate. Sigh with relief. I will not be finding a rotten egg under the stove in June.
Following Sunday: Throw out 16 hard boiled eggs. Should have gotten the broken dozen