Saturday, I let my kids dye Easter eggs, like they do every year. We were going to do this outside to avoid the certainty that is a huge mess, but it was supposed to rain. So, my grandmother put a lot of cover over her kitchen table. I mean, this is my kids we’re talking about. If you don’t want your new kitchen table to look like something a unicorn pooped on, you’d better have cover!
The kids had already started their ritual when I came in from settling the baby down. My six and three year-old were already covered in dye. Oh, that dye. You know what I’m talking about. You buy it when you see those brightly colored eggs on the packaging. You think these eggs are going to look like My Little Pony characters. The oranges are going to be as bright as traffic cones, the yellows are going to be as magnificent as sunflowers, the blue will be as beautiful as the skies, and the pinks will look like strawberry cake. Let me tell you something: It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how good you follow those directions, how long you leave the egg in the cup of vinegar/dye, and how many dye pills you throw in those cups. Those colors will never light up the room. Those oranges and yellows are barely even noticeable. The blues are more like a cloudy sky, and those pinks look more like they’re blushing from a slightly embarrassing memory. Not even like speaking in front of thousands of people, no, this egg only spoke in front of his immediate family. Not that embarrassing.
Anyway, the kids were painting and soaking the eggs with the less-than-exciting colored water. Meanwhile, I, who had just bought a brand new Stone Cold Steve Austin t-shirt, was trying to dodge the flying drops of color. It might not show up on the eggs, but your hands and clothes will be the brightest rainbow you’ll ever see. I still have greenish blueish fingernails. It won’t come out.
I had dyed a few, myself. By the time Gabe had mixed the colors into a poopy brown, we only had two solid colors left: Blue and blue-green. Needless to say, all of my eggs were blue.
My shirt made it out, clean. I still had it on the next day, because what mother only wears a t-shirt for half a day?
Also, it never rained. Weather man, you were wrong. Again.
Easter had arrived. My brother-in-law decided to barbecue, so I was worried. My shirt would surely not make it through the barbecue sauce. Gabe and Bella had woken up to see what the Easter bunny had brought them. Candy. Lots and lots of candy. We’re talking about brown chocolate, sticky, sugary candy. Here I am, trying to avoid anything that may stick to my shirt while my kids have transformed into miniature typhoons, damaging everything in their maniacal path. I can already hear the Snuggle Soft laundry detergent teddy bear laughing at me.
And we haven’t even hidden the eggs, yet.
My cousin’s wife and I spent the next half hour keeping our kids from sneaking peeks out of the windows while everyone else hid the eggs. I had handed the baby to Dillon, so he was pretty much immobile.
Cut to the actual egg hunt. When the doors open, it was like the bull gates opened at a rodeo. Kids fell over each other, running outside with their adorable little baskets. I had to help my son hunt the eggs. He would walk right by the obvious hiding spots. Really. One was sitting in plain sight atop the short grass and he just ran past it.
If you have ever seen a dyed egg that’s been in the refrigerator all night, you would know that the cold causes them to sweat. Thus, wet egg dye. My three year old, hyper son would hand me eggs to put in his basket. My hands were dyed, again. I wasn’t about to wipe them on my shirt, either. The only relief I had, was the few plastic eggs that he managed to find. More candy. Yay.
At least he found two money eggs. Now, he can buy more candy!
Finally, the holiday was over. All of the eggs were found. I take that back, I have never taken part of an Easter when all of the eggs are found. We will still be finding rotted and forgotten eggs at Halloween.
Everyone had eaten and left, and I am left with a grass covered, candy smeared, plastic egg scattered floor. After my sisters and I had a candy war, I swept up what I could and called it a day.
My shirt did not make it, unscathed. There, right on the front of the Stone Cold skull logo, was the brick colored stain of baked beans. Ah, nothing like crying for thirty minutes.
Despite that and the utter exhaustion of another holiday, I had fun. My kids will be opening, taking one bite, and throwing the candy on the floor for a month. Unless Dillon and I decide to steal a piece or two. I’m sure they won’t miss the Reese’s eggs.
I hope you had a wonderful holiday!