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.
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.
He’s sure.
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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.
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| Things were going well here. |
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.
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| The eggs |
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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