The Day Humpty Dumpty Cracked

I think God knew what he was doing when he gave children the blessing of not remembering too much before the age of 6 or 7.  Think about it.

Do you remember a lot from that early childhood time?

There is actually very little that I can pull from that time period in my life.  In fact, I don’t remember fun things like dying Easter eggs at all. 

On Good Friday, I thought I would be a good mom and do the traditional Easter craft of dying Easter eggs with the kids.

I did everything right.

I boiled eggs.

I covered the table with cloth because the box clearly said that the dye would stain anything it touched.  I put two stools together at the counter.  We were ready for this project.

Excitement built as the eggs cooled down to a temperature where we could dye our first eggs.

We started with the colors of blue and pink. We added vinegar to make the colors more vibrant.

Things went beautifully.  Our time together was filled with pleasantries and smiles.

Things were going well here.
When it was all said and done, we had two green eggs, two pink, two blue, and an orange egg.  Baby Diva chose to put stickers on her eggs, while Mr. Cool used the magic crayon to put the finishing touches on his creations.  

It was an Easter miracle. We accomplished this task with no mess and very little dye on our fingertips.  There were no tears, and we had eggs for the basket.

But then as fast as you can say “Easter egg,” the tide changed.  Mr. Cool, who loves eggs, said that he wanted to eat one.

“Why don’t you wait until tonight after your dad gets home, so he can see your masterpieces?” I replied.

He whines, “No,” while his sister stays busy putting 100 tiny stickers on her little egg.

I grab a gorgeous green, marbled egg while muttering an “are you sure?” under my breath.

The eggs
He’s sure. 

Crack! And peel. 

The crying and screaming begins as the egg begins to turn white.

“I wanted Daddy to see it!”  There is no reasoning with a stubborn 6-year-old who is crying profusely.  You would have thought he was hurt by the carrying on this child did over a peeled egg.

Quickly, I suggest we call Daddy to tell him about the egg. 

The marble-green Humpty Dumpty cannot be repaired, and, unfortunately, all the king’s men will never be able to make him lovely again.

Let’s face it. Humpty Dumpty had done been cracked and peeled.  He cannot go in the basket.  The only thing left to do is eat him.

Will answers.  Mr. Cool is hysterical, crying over a broken egg.

Before I could speak, I look over and Baby Diva grabbed an egg that still needed drying.  She was trying to peel a vibrant blue egg, and her hands are blue, and blue dye is running down her legs about to drop on the chair.

“Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” I scream.  She erupts into tears.
My son is crying.  She’s crying.  I scream.

My husband yells, “What happened?”

I yell, “The great Easter project just turned into s***t.  That’s what happened.”

Let’s hope this memory thing holds true, for my sake, because it will forever be remembered as the day that Mama’s Easter craft went to hell in a handbasket at one crack of an egg.

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