I’m sitting here tonight, remembering the days when I used to think the Easter holiday was so much fun. We boiled dozens of eggs in order to sit with the kids and dye them, then the husband and I would argue about whether or not it was okay to leave the eggs out in the baskets and/or hide the real eggs around the house for an egg hunt in the morning (I argued no and usually won; who wants to deal with salmonella poisoning on Easter?) The eggs got placed in the fridge and days of egg salad sandwiches and deviled eggs were consumed for a week after the holiday.
After finally getting the kids to bed, all excited and dreaming of what the Easter Bunny might have filled their baskets with by morning, we would happily put the chocolate bunnies, Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs, jelly beans, Peeps, and various video movies, toys and trinkets into the baskets.
Easter mornings, waking up with a house full of their cousins, up from southern Jersey, who had slept over the night before, who were going to be having Easter dinner at their other aunt’s home near our own house for their traditional Ham, while we were traveling to our aunt’s home in southern Jersey for our traditional Easter Lamb dinner. Searching the house in the morning for the baskets hidden upstairs, downstairs, in the basement, the oven, the clothes dryer. Watching Aunt CJ make her bunny cake with the licorice whiskers just in time to take it to their Easter Celebration as we got ready to leave for the long ride down to Aunt Susie’s. Having an Easter egg hunt at her house with our other cousins when we arrived there for dinner. Aunt Susie, who, along with Grandma Brown, would have hidden at least 50 little plastic eggs filled with coins or jelly beans all over her big yard. Which little plastic eggs would hold the most money? And, who would find the one egg with the paper money? The kids would all be so excited. Those were the days.
I wonder if my kids remember these moments as fondly as I do? I have so many memories which my kids will often tell me they don’t recall at all when I share them. Then again, I don’t really remember the holidays of my childhood as my mother did. We think we’re making memories for our children, but maybe the memories are really being made for ourselves? Life is funny. Maybe if any of my children have kids of their own in the future, then they might have the wonderful memories of their children’s holidays as I do.