Everywhere I turn I see blog post after blog post after blog post all about dying Easter eggs--happy children, smiling parents, you know, the works. Now I'm not sure if I'm a craptastic mother or a sub-prime member of the human race in general, but honestly, I detest dying Easter eggs with my child. Or any child for that matter.
I sat back earlier today to reflect upon my unkind feelings, and was quite surprised to uncover the true source of my disdain. It's not what you might think, the mess doesn't bother me one fraction of an iota. I mean come one, we all know that I willingly take my child to the grocery store wearing nothing but grape jelly, snot, and a pair of Bob the Builder underpants.
My bad feelings are 100%, completely due to the eggs themselves. There's no tree to hang them from, my neighbors would look at me funny if I piled them up on my front step, and dude, they get too rancid to even make a decent sandwich out of.
What in the smokin' hell are you supposed to do with those eggs?
Some people would tell me to hide them all around my house and my yard and then let my eager, young child run around to find them. Um, yeah, okay--if I'm gonna go through that much trouble, I'd much rather spend the time teaching my kid to walk to the grocery store and use some coupons to by Mom a dozen fresh eggs, a gallon of milk, a box of tampons and some Jack Daniels chillers. I know I know, how very practical of me.
Other people would tell me put the eggs in my child's Easter basket. Well, only if I have a 2-pound pork loin, half-a dozen oranges, and some fast-acting yeast to go with 'em. Honestly, getting a pink egg for a holiday is only slightly less exciting than getting some poop in your pants on a 8-hour airplane ride--as in, not at all.
It's simple really. I prefer my Easter eggs when they're made of peanut butter and dipped in chocolate. Is that so wrong? Am I the only one? Is there anyone else like me?