We did our Easter egg hunt this evening, so I didn’t have to sneak out last night as I have done in the past: prowling around my yard wielding a flashlight, trying not to trip over anything or make too much noise as I traipse through dried leaves and fallen twigs while hiding eggs in the dark.
Even though I did count the total number of eggs, I didn’t wind up telling the kids they could each only have xx number of them or that each kid could only have certain colors. In addition to the traditional pastel-colored eggs, this year I used camouflage eggs (that looked like stones, grass, or bark) as well as sports-themed eggs (that blended in nicely with our existing yard decor of soccer goals, baseball gloves, and the like so the playing field was pretty even among my three boys.
I save the eggs from year to year and some of them were still filled with trinkets and candy from last year. I figured the Laffy Taffy was probably still good (completely sealed) but tossed the Reese’s mini peanut butter cups (loosely wrapped).
Four Easters ago, the Easter Bunny left pictures of Mickey Mouse and The Magic Kingdom in the kids’ Easter eggs. We packed our bags that day and left for Disney World. Today no one mentioned the Easter Bunny.
How times change.
After surveying their loot, the boys showered (proactively), put on pajamas and settled themselves in front of the TV with their baskets of candy and turned on the Red Sox home opener. I scolded them for their comments about the Yankees. “Boys! If you have nothing nice to say…” I am not a Yankees fan, but I still respect them as fine baseball players (though I wonder why they don’t have their names on their shirts — do they think we all know who they are?). Both of The Bigs rejected a Johnny Damon hand-me-down shirt because “he’s a traitor!” Calling someone a “Yankees fan” is one of their cleverest insults.
Top of the fifth inning, my oldest and youngest lost interest (or maybe just couldn’t bear to watch) as the score was 5-1 Yankees. But my middle son and I chewed our gum frantically, on the edges of our seats.
“How many pieces of gum do you have in your mouth, honey?”
He held up four, then five fingers. Apparently he had too big a wad to speak coherently.
(I was chewing two pieces of the egg-shaped bubble gum that I used in lieu of jellybeans, since no one but me will eat jellybeans, and I am the last person that needs to eat jellybeans, or any candy, actually, but it seems to me that gumballs are the least of all the evils).
We both noticed and coveted the enormous bucket of Dubble Bubble gum in the Red Sox dugout, and we also both noticed how validating it was to see how Mike Lowell chews gum. (“Look, honey, he lets it hang out of his mouth, too!”)
I made everyone go to bed in the sixth inning and was adamant about toothbrushing. My oldest asked if I could leave the TV on so he could at least listen to the game (I tried to report Dustin Pedroia’s homer in the 7th inning, but he was already fast asleep). My younger two needed a fan, a foot rub, a drink, a different pair of pajamas, and Advil, and so on..and on and on.
I felt kind of guilty that they missed Steven Tyler singing “God Bless America” (since my rock and roll education efforts continue) and Neil Diamond singing our fave “Sweet Caroline.” And they missed Jonathan Papelbon “save” the game. But I’m sure they’ll have ample opportunities to watch coverage of it tomorrow morning on any of the myriad sports channels we have, and hopefully I won’t hear anyone gripe about “Monday.”
P.S. My middle son liked all the t-shirts I picked out for him and has them lined up in the order in which he plans to wear them this week.