Watch out parents: Easter is coming
For those of you parents who, at some point over the next three days, will be googling “How to get egg dye out of carpet,” here are some words of advice from Jason Good—writer, comedian, and the author of This is Ridiculous This is Amazing. In this collection of 71 lists that capture the absurdity and joys of family life, Jason delivers a laugh-out-loud reminder that everything is easier and a lot more fun when approached with a sense of humor—especially parenting.
Watch out parents: Easter is coming. It’s more or less Halloween without the costumes or shameless begging; a tornado of chocolate eating cloaked in the phantom iconography of a rabbit that lays chocolate eggs. I’m sure my wife and I will take our small sons to some kind of egg hunt this year—a slightly misleading term, for a hunt suggests that the eggs are fleeing a predator. No one should hunt an egg. It’s cruel. Those poor, pathetically defenseless eggs don’t have a chance. Admittedly, though, the apt term, “egg find,” probably doesn’t have enough zing to bring in the masses.
Last Easter, in our small New Jersey village, the local baseball diamond was littered with four-hundred plastic eggs, none of which were hidden at all. From space, I imagine the area resembled a giant sheet of cold medicine. This seemed like something designed more for parolees assigned to community service than it did jolly holiday fun.
An army of toddlers gathered on the starting line, poised and waiting for William Wallace to scream something about freedom. From my distance of fifty feet, it appeared that one of the tots had a bayonet, and another a canon. But I’d had very little sleep, and upon closer examination saw they were simply holding imaginative baskets (ours was an “artistic” community). Poor Arlo, our youngest, does not have artsy parents, or, apparently, ones who properly prepare for egg finds. He had no basket at all. Instead, Arlo had to make due with a stretchy nylon purse of his mother’s, which I held for him by its frilly ribbon. “Would anyone like a beautiful pastel egg from my dainty satchel?”
The mayor, who was officiating the festivities, yawned, blew his whistle, and the infield succumbed to a screaming, cackling human vacuum. Arlo immediately demanded that I pick him up, and I don’t blame him. It was rough out there: a rugby match minus organized teams, rules, focus, or any sense of self-preservation. Inside these eggs were edible treasures, making it a veritable Gold Rush of childhood.
The eggs were cleared in two minutes. It was a snappy harvest that year. The hunt was supposed to be the day’s activity for us, the answer to the prior weekend’s “Ugh, what are we doing on Sunday?” I’m not sure why we thought it would take a whole day, but by 1:07 PM we had nothing left to do except head home and spend the afternoon setting rules about the amount of chocolate the kids were permitted to eat, only to give in and let them snarf it all. Like Halloween, Easter seems to always end in the tears of a sugar crash.
I have two pieces of advice for you this Easter: The first is to prepare your kid for an egg rush by dressing him or her in football, hockey, or lacrosse pads. Second, I’d encourage you to host a BBQ afterwards, and if you live nearby, please invite me. I promise I will have stolen some candy from my boys and we can all huddle in the basement together to eat it.
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Photo credit: Ben Toht
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