Our Easter eggs have zebra acne

Chuck and I just got done hiding the eggs. I have no idea how many we hid, nor do I remember exactly where we hid them, which means in a month or so we'll have no problem getting rid of lingering guests.

I like Easter, but it snuck up on me this year, as did preparing for it. Junior's basket is decidedly humble, and besides one pastel egg tree, I didn't put much out. I'm a connoisseur of magazines and they were brimming with catchy Easter creatures to concoct (Easter bunnies made with pink pipe cleaners, tampons and glitter? Great idea, Martha!) and various ways to wow my guests, but every time I started reading them I—yawn—couldn't quite—yawn—get into it.

I blame the children.

I spent Thursday morning as teacher's helper in Junior's nursery school. We helped 25 four year olds make Easter baskets from old milk containers. I was in charge of helping them glue on cotton tails, stick on whiskers, draw on faces, and affix ears. In case you've never been to hell it sounds like this:

"I don't want my bunny's ears there! I want them THERE. No, not THERE. THERE!"

"I need a tail. I need a tail. I need a tail. My tail fell off. I need a tail. I need a tail. I need a tail."

"You dress funny."

"I HATE craft time!"

"I have a cat at home. Do you have a cat? Does it have a name? My cat's name is Mark. My uncle is Mark. Does your cat sleep? My cat eats."

"I need a tail. I need a tail. I need a tail. My tail fell off. I need a tail. I need a tail. I need a tail."

"His basket is bigger than mine!"

"I don't want my bunny's tail there! I want it THERE. No, not THERE. THERE!"

I have never craved grain alcohol so desperately. Every brain cell ached.

It still does.

But that's ok. It's all ok. It doesn't matter that there isn't an overflowing Easter basket for Junior. It doesn't matter that our colored eggs are riddled with animal-patterned acne and encased in electrical wire. We don't need opulence. We don't need smiling, pink bunnies peeking out of every crevice to celebrate life, family and holiday. If you think about it, we need so very little exposure to young children to be happy.

Oops, that last sentence is the bunny tail talking.

Hold me! It was frightful!

And yes, I did match Junior for this occasion

I have today off (from work and the blogosphere) and I'm dragging Junior to get his picture taken with a large fur-covered man who has bulging black eyes, antennae-like ears and sweaty felt gloves.

Can't imagine why children scream so...

If you want a piece of me, I guest posted over at A Reservation for Six. If not, pppppssssfffflt!

Now go dye those eggs!

Et tu, date night?

Every parenting magazine says, “To stay connected to your hubby, plan a date night.”

Blah, blah, blah! We didn’t do date night before Junior, why should we start now? Date night implies cordial behavior, dressy clothes, and conversation. Right now I don’t feel like acting cordial (I have a cold), I’m still wearing yoga pants because I haven’t lost that last 10 pounds, and my husband and I are running out of things to talk about. Screw date night!

Except my mother—my over concerned, too-observant mother—insisted that Charles and I get out of the house together. Alone.

“It’s been eight months,” she said on the phone, injecting as much worry and heart wrench as possible.

“Has it?” I asked.

She told me she would be up at two. Charles and I could catch a movie. Grocery shop. Get a pay-by-the-hour hotel room.

“Mother!” (My mother is way too oversexed; at one point she thought our Golden Lab wanted to have sex with her. That’s fodder for another post.)

She arrived at three. Bless her heart she brought an Easter basket for my son. I like this age—he doesn’t know what presents are his nor does he care if his parents devour all his candy. It’s ideal.

We sat in the driveway for awhile wondering what to do. There was nothing good at the theaters. We had already had lunch. So Charles, being the party animal he is, drove to the package store and bought a six pack. Then he remembered he needed new glasses. He suggested we go to the mall, drink in the parking lot, then get his glasses.

Which we did. We parked behind the last few dirty snow mounds and pounded beer. It might sound sad and unglamorous (because it is) but I actually had a really good time. We talked for more than an hour, which is marathon talking compared to the drivel we rely on during the workweek. We talked about stupid stuff, like how people thought I was Amish in high school because I was such a goodie goodie and how he wore a suit and tie to school one day—just because he liked Alex P. Keaton—and got the shit kicked out of him.

As we walked into Lens Crafters, I was pleased to find myself thinking, Is it any wonder we came together? It was quite different than my usual thinking, which is, “This jerk might have to go.”

So thank you, stupid parenting magazines that suggest date night. I’m pretty sure our date wasn't quite what you had in mind but it was wonderful.