This past Easter my brother invited me to an Easter egg hunt at our friend’s house and had asked me to bring some eggs. Since this was my first time to ever take an official role in Easter festivities other than Girl Who Steals the Golden Egg and Claims She Really Found It, Mom, I went to Target, purchased the supplies and spent two hours stuffing candy into 100 pastel egg shells.

We were about an hour and a half late because of traffic and during the whole drive I worried that my bag of eggs was preventing the young children from enjoying Easter and that upon my entry they would swipe the bag and hurl those multi-colored shells at my head and I would flee having assumed a new position as Woman Who Ruined Easter. When we approached the house, I told Mike not to stop the car and I would just tuck and roll.

Once I removed gravel bits from my face, I raced to the door, flung it open and held the bag over my head like I had knifed off some wild beast’s head and I was presenting to the frightened townspeople and I yelled, “I HAVE EGGS! I! HAVE! EGGS!”

Only, I found myself ankle-high in empty plastic egg shells and surrounded by children whom had already had an Easter egg hunt (with almost 500 eggs!) long before our arrival and adults wondering if mental illness ran in my family.

And I took my sad bag home with the idea that maybe we could stage an egg hunt just for pictures. But we never had that faux-Easter, instead we had a bag of delicious chocolate and jelly bean goodness in the garage.

For the past few weeks, Mike and I have crept into the dark purple and gold den and chomped on chocolates. I’ve also learned that the best way to make my mammoth two-year-old climb the stairs himself is to stand at the top and open up a Reese’s Cup and say, “HEY LOOK WHAT MOMMY HAS HERE!”

Last night Mike and I made an executive decision to chuck the bag in the nearest trash can not within walking distance because either one of us would be rifling through it and later blaming the strewn Twix wrappers on squirrels or those damn dirty apes!

Mike dumped it off at a street garbage can, walked back to the car and we drove off. Then suddenly, he made a u-turn, returned to the scene and said, “I double dare you to go back there and get the candy.”

And this is exactly the kind of marriage we have, the kind that is filled with sweetness and love and the freedom to reply with, “Michael, if you make me stand by the side of the road, picking candy out of the trash, you will have to double dare me NOT TO PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE.”

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  1. Swistle says:

    Just curious: what intersection is the trash can near? I’m just wondering. And mourning the loss of that Grade A chocolate.

  2. mrs. blogoway says:

    How could you?

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