Every year I say it. I deem it so. I put it out into the universe and the universe smacks my face, says “Girl, please,” and turns me in the opposite direction. Holidays hate me. Yet, I try to love them so very hard. Every year, y’all. Every year.
Easter came around this year and I was going to dye eggs with the girls and have an egg hunt. We were going to make baskets and I was going to let them actually eat some of the jelly beans they found. Note to self: buy things when you think of them because Target is not open on Easter.
Needless to say, SuperFantastic came to the rescue.
They dyed eggs.
The oldest girl claims she’s keeping this one forever, it’s so beautiful. I had to let her know it’ll stink long before then, refrigerated or not.
They made chocolate birds’ nests.
And one of them even cussed. On purpose. Look at his face. You know he’s saying all sorts of bad things about his teachers in his head. LOOK AT HIS FACE. The disgust is almost more than I can bear (which is why I can’t stop looking at it and laughing hysterically because YOU BASTARDS, LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO ME).
One year, y’all, one year. One year I’ll acknowledge every holiday the way it deserves. One year. I did make Easter dinner at least: ham, baked chicken, fried chicken, potato salad, greens, and macaroni and cheese. Maybe that counts for something.
It’s April. I’m sure I can get something festive together for Memorial Day.