Other then the scrummy candy baskets, I have never really liked Easter that much. It brings back memories of shiny white shoes, horrible lace tights, ugly straw purses, fancy elbow length sweaty gloves, and frilly..itchy dresses. (Which is why I have never forced my own girls to wear any of it)
Besides the ridiculous froofy crap I had to wear the entire Sunday, we always had to attend the longest Easter mass EVER. The priest droned on..and on...every year. The most excitement I ever got out of Easter service was the year some kid barfed a pile of chocolate all over his mother two pews in front of us. The only thing that got me through mass was Dad's promise of the annual egg hunt right after. There was nothing more enjoyable than annoying my mother while plodding through the grass...scuffing my shoes...losing the curl in my hair...and getting grass stains on my tights.
When I recall Easter dinner I can only think of one thing, well two really. First of all there was always some awful looking lamb cake. Initially, I was excited..hey..this was cake! But, no. It tasted like cardboard and foam...every year. The second thing I remember is cherry jello...doused in milk. (My mother always served it that way) It was awful. Strangely enough, I don't really recall turkey or ham (possibly because my mother often ruined it...or yelled so much that we all lost our appetites)
I like to do things simple. I don't require finery at my house on Easter. I'd rather answer the kids questions about religion myself too. I don't get all preachy, I try to make it more appealing. We don't do polished silver at the dinner table, or linen napkins either. We could eat hot dogs for all I care...because what really matters is that we are together.
There are still baskets and egg hunts...bunnies and a prayer...and usually there is still my mother. (As polished up as ever at age 87)
My youngest is completely excited about the Easter Bunny (unlike I used to be... traumatized by one Ronald McNielly at age 7...He told me the tale of how he saw this enormous hairy bunny sitting on the toilet while he went in search for his basket one Easter. Every year thereafter, I spent the night before the holiday behind a locked bedroom door..under the covers..afraid to breath (or pee)
Still, I'm sure the bunny will be visiting our house this year...after all there is plenty to deliver...eggs...peeps...jelly beans... chocolates...and all that Easter grass that's sure to clog up the vacuum (and it's been only recently that I finished finding Christmas tinsel)
Go figure.

Usually, it's the kids bringing home some obnoxious, infectious germ. This time it was my husband who introduced us to "Mongo the Mutant Virus"

Somewhere out there lurks some dribbly nosed infecto that spewed his or her viral demons all over some desk, coffee pot, or doorknob. Within one week of the unknown assailant assaulting the workplace...dear hubby came home with a scratchy throat.

This is ALWAYS a very bad sign. At this point I organized the cupboard for him, lining up Tums, Tylenol, Advil, Sudafed, Robitussin, and Vicks Vapo Rub. I knew that within 24 hours he was destined to become but a shell of a man...weak, pitiful, sneezy, stuffy, achy, droopy and tired. (The seven dwarfs of sickness all wrapped up into one feverish body) And I was right.

However, his B vitamins gave him almost superhuman strength (He managed to make it 3 hours into work before he completely deflated) Limping home up the steps, bleary eyed and hacking at least half a lung up...he dropped his superman cape and waved the white flag.

It's always difficult sleeping in the same room as a sick spouse. The coughing shakes the bed, the sniffling and nose blowing sound like broken water mains and foghorns, a gentle tug for the covers becomes an all out war, the tossing becomes so unbearable that one thinks of bunking with the children...until...there is that unmistakable sound from down the hall.

A cough.

Then..."Mommeeeeeeeeeeee"

Quickly, I dosed child number one with some form of horse tablet while securing the door with "Do not enter" tape. Meanwhile, child number two breaks through the barrier to announce a headache. Within 6 hours there was no school lunch to pack...no little book bag to fill. My house was under quarantine.

A very exciting array of pharmaceuticals lined the window sill. I had adult tablets and ointments; children's syrups, sprays, and lozenges; all in an assortment of flavors and colors...all of which smelled and tasted completely disgusting. There was Kleenex everywhere...boxes, wads, shreds...real confetti. I ran around with Lysol, hand sanitizer...and antibacterial soap. I made soup, tea...served juice, toast... and the entire house went to hell. I'm behind on laundry, cleaning, and myself. I look like a mad chicken with frayed nerves.

Happily, my hubby had kicked the germ rather quickly (Due to my constant love and devotion I'm sure) and child number one was sick in so much silence that I practically forgot that she was home...but child number two...agh...night after night sleeping in our room...hacking, crying, snorking. FINALLY, after 4 days she trotted off back to school. I was free! I disinfected everything...a new day had dawned...

until child number three came down.....

Coughing

The hazemat teams should be by at anytime to pick up the bio hazard drums full of Kleenex.

As for me..I'm off to the pharmacy. Boy, have they made a lot of money out of me this week.

This entire pattern started with that darn giraffe. I must have been six years old at the time. I stood leaning quite unaware against a chain link fence at the zoo... licking my chocolate ice cream cone...watching the camels across the way, innocently asking if their humps were backwards boobs... when suddenly, I was assaulted. A long, wet tongue swooped down from above, slurped at my left eye, and slapped at my cheek...attempting to snarf what was left of my cone. I screamed, flinging ice cream at my mother while running wildly towards my father. A very large giraffe loomed, craning its long neck down over the fence...eyeing me and snorting.

It seemed after that I was a target. Birds pooped on me, dogs chased me on my bike (almost clear across the state line), black cats crossed my path, ducks snapped at my little dresses, and hamsters regularly thought of my fingers as french fries.

Not much has changed. Take yesterday for example. Within 15 minutes of walking out my front door I was terrorized by a wasp, and leapt upon by a flying squirrel.

My dear husband had decided to take us for a ride to the lake. We were approximately 16 feet from the driveway when I heard a slight buzzing sound. Leaning back in my seat I strained to listen more carefully. (Bzzzzzzz....nearer to my ear than I found favorable..or safe) And then there it was....the size of a bird...the mother of all wasps...crawling up my neck.

I screamed and flailed my arms wildly. My husband started swerving down the road while anxious parents called their children inside...wondering if he'd had a few too many beers. My daughter simply thought I was having a breakdown. I anxiously pressed the window down button. The wasp was frantically flying like a helicopter spinning out of control, and then with great aim and precision I backhanded it out the window. There were cheers, claps, and much rejoicing. (Well, there were laughs, eye rolls, and huffs) However, seeing the trauma this insect put me through caused my husband to take a slight detour to a friends house a few blocks away. He thought it might cheer me up.

Turns out they had new pets...

Squirrels.

I must admit that the pair of little creatures did look absolutely adorable. They were tiny hamster like creatures with huge, innocent eyes, fluffy tails....and long claws. And did I mention they flew?...well, sort of. Apparently their little bodies spread out like parachutes while they could simply glide across the room. .....or onto ME...like the first furry little guy did. One minute he was looking all sweet and I wanted to "ookie pookie" him...and the next, well..he was in full spring towards my face. My husband almost peed himself laughing while this little creature ran across my chest to shoulders and onto my back. I think it was calling its pal over because I saw it's mate staring me down, ready to lunge at my hair..and possibly nest. I was ever so thankful when my neighbor pulled it off and let it run onto my husband instead...where it promptly pooped.

I was afraid to leave..afraid to move. I was plotting a quick tumbling escape through the kitchen window. I could have sprinted for the back door but my friends horse, erm dog, was guarding the exit.

Thankfully their children corralled the little creatures and distracted the moose, erm dog, so we could say our goodbyes. The thing is.. I really miss our old neighbors. I would like to see them more often but I'm not sure their animals will allow me in next time.

We did made it to the lake though.

Not that I'd consider swimming in ANY lake again....freaky little nipping fish!