Resurrection

When I was seven-years-old, my parents sat me down the night before Easter to inform me there was no such thing as an Easter Bunny. I cried. I distinctly remember my sadness not stemming from the non-existence of the mythical hare. I was sad because I knew my dad was really just telling me I wasn't getting a gift basket the following Sunday. (They had forgotten to pick something up.) Through my blubbering, I managed to ask about the authenticity of Santa. Dad assured me that Santa would arrive next Christmas. Relief.

Easter should be esteemed as the most holy, reverent holidays for all Christians everywhere. It is, after all, what defines us as Christian. I can honestly confess (this is a confession), I haven't always embraced the spirit of the holiday for what it is–as you can guess from the story of my 7-year-old self.

As I grew older and presumably wiser, I looked forward to Easter for different reasons: to dress up my kids, decorate hard-boiled eggs, and pose as the Easter Bunny to warrant ridiculous portions of chocolate and jelly beans in the house. All of that was pretty fun. Yet, I skimmed over the true reason for the celebration.

Now I am forced to give up dressing up my kids for the holiday. I still buy them clothes, but my opinions are effectively moot. Alex would never talk to me again if I made her wear a flowery dress with a pink floppy hat. And if I attempted another sweater vest on Cole, he'd likely run away. Thus, they wear something cool and trendy that can and must be worn with dirty Converses or ratty Nikes.

Last week, I was nostalgic about the days of the egg hunts during our big family celebrations. Then it occurred to me! Those hunts were a pain in the ass. We mothers not only had to hide hundreds of eggs, but we had to find the well-hidden ones as well...and make sure all the kids got equal amounts. Neither of those two things ever happened.

So this Saturday, as we hosted family, I tried to determine how to resurrect the Easter of times past.  Then it occurred to me. Why? The youngest of the clan is now fourteen. The kids can dress themselves (most of the time) and they are quite adept at entertaining themselves.

Easter is resurrection, without the need of all the commercial antics and hoo-rah. No matter what traditions we do or not do, it's a time for all of us to be immensely happy. Because we are loved no matter what, through all of our sins and failings.

If you believe Jesus died for our sins, it really is the most wonderful time to meditate on what that really means to you. And perhaps some of you, like me, will conclude the best way to honor God for this gift is to follow His lead and show your love to others no matter what–and not necessarily with chocolate bunnies.

Look at those threads. More importantly, look at those smiles. #Loved.

Easter Musings and the Way They Dressed

I'm trying to decide when I transformed from the mom who obsessed over every detail of her daughter's pastel-hued easter ensemble to a mom who now tosses her kid's unlaundered, wrinkly shirt in the dryer for a few minutes before the family dashes off to Mass. I think it happened sometime between..."I'm too tired" and "Ok, you win."

I'm not ashamed to admit that much of my desire in becoming a mom has everything to do with dressing up the kids at easter-time. And when they're teeny-tiny, it's not so difficult. It's an achievement when you manage to dress them in some clever piece of clothing and the darling image makes you mouth"precious" all day long. Then they turn three. And if they have any sense of self, they begin to give you a little sass about the adorable outfits you've picked out. They also give you some guff about the painful and/or complicated accessories, like a requisite hat or strappy pair of sandals. But you shame them into wearing it, by telling them how much you spent. And of course, they don't care about that. So, you cajole them with more Cadbury eggs, so that they become even more monstrous. And you feel your plan backfiring when a sugar-possessed demon suddenly becomes super-empowered to tell you "I DON'T CARE" while she's destroying the purse, the hat and the matching shoes. (Boys might take a slightly alternative course, like destroy everything else in the living room. But either way, destruction has occurred.)

If you have a little boy and have dressed him up in a dapper sweater vest or tie, you might also have to contend with a husband who has already envisioned the boy being bullied as he dances around in his threads. Not even telling your hubby how much you spent will work. He just wants you to get the boy into something that de-sissifies him. But, it's too late now. It's ten minutes 'til church.  Hubby will just have to pout too. Or destruct something in the living room.

So, now that I've given my kids free reign to choose whatever they choose to wear on holidays, I have to admit a burden has been lifted. No longer do I need to be worried or distracted if any of my kids' wardrobes malfunction. Jeans and tee-shirts tend to perform fairly consistently, even though they're nearly as fun. But if I want to enjoy the days when my kids pouted, sighed and wrestled about their fancy garb, I look back and smile at photos like these...and they were worth every bit of struggle.

sad alex, forced to pose 

"Can I take off the tie now?"

Easter Egg Journal

Sunday Evening, 7:30 p.m.
“Mom, can we decorate our eggs now?”
“Not yet. I’ll hard boil the eggs right now and we can do it tomorrow night.”

Head goes down in dejection.

Monday Evening, 5:35 p.m. (shortly after arriving home)

“Mom, can we decorate our eggs now?”
“After I change and we finish supper.”

Head goes down in dejection.

6:37 p.m.
“Mom, can we decorate our eggs now?”
“After dishes are cleaned up. Hey, where are you going? You can help!”

6:45 p.m.
The egg decorating begins…Everyone is happy…

“I want black!”
“Sorry, no black, Cole.”

Alex attempts to avoid multi-colored fingers. Cole doesn’t mind the variety.

“Cole! You already dyed your eggs. Those are mine!”

Happiness begins to wane. Pouting. Begging. Begging. Just one more egg. For goodness sakes Alex, let him have the last one. A small pout from Alex. A big smile from Cole. I tickle Alex. She smiles too.

Brilliantly-colored eggs with hearts from Alex.

Dark (not black) eggs with bats from Cole.

Only one dropped egg! Cole eats it immediately. What? You like them this year? Except for the mold around the yolk? That’s not mold, really. You want another? Let’s wait a little while. Two digested hard boiled eggs make for a long night.

Alex , like the polite lady she is, saves her egg for later.

7:23 p.m.

Now off to watch either baseball or pre-game basketball. With any luck, we won’t be smelling any egg farts tonight.