Now that Easter is done for this year, I have to admit to a certain amount of nostalgia surrounding Easters in the past. The one with just Brian, with me pregnant with Benji, across the street in the old rent house while we remodeled this house. Brian, dressed in his pj's, bear claw slippers and bear hat, running all over that gross backyard, hunting eggs. The ones down at Coon Creek, when the Easter Bunny hid the golden egg in the minnow bucket down on the dock or up high in the Magnolia tree, that the boys never could find. There was also the year we decided to put out the eggs late at night, so we could sleep in the next morning. Not one of our better ideas, considering the late night critters who came visiting.
This morning I was reading another blog where the mom was describing their family's Easter just past. She said there were too many egg hunts, hyper sugar overload, and by Saturday afternoon, her husband told their kids he was going "to shoot the Easter Bunny and that he wasn't coming the next day." As a mom, I could so relate, and laughed my head off. Those are the days I do not miss. Suddenly, up came the memories over who found the golden egg, who didn't, who pouted, who gloated, and two parents that were tempted to go fix a Bloody Mary and let the kids fight it out.
Next came the memory of our old Supper Club egg hunt at a friend's house, where adults became little children again, hunting eggs all over their house. It didn't last long, but while it did, we were nothing more than large children, squealing, laughing, and loading up our baskets. Never mind dinner, we all sat down to open all our plastic eggs and check out our candy haul. And eat it.