Sarah Roush

It’s the week leading up to the Easter celebration. For Christians everywhere, it is our largest celebration – the resurrection of God’s son. For everyone else, it is the second largest holiday for the consumption of chocolate and an excuse to stuff our faces with baked ham and deviled eggs.

We are contemplating taking Sparky to the Easter Egg Hunt, sponsored by the local Kiwanis Club. He’s old enough, just over 2, to participate in the younger age group. Having been highly involved in the planning and execution of egg hunts over the years, the Hubs and I have been trying to ease him into the mindset of looking for and collecting eggs.

It’s been a learning experience, mostly for the adults in the household. Sparky is good about identifying eggs – or what he considers to be eggs. He sees a carton and immediately starts yelling, “Eggs, eggs!” That almost immediately evolves into, “Fried eggs!”

He knows what he likes, and he also understands that we get eggs from our chicken coop. We take feed and water to the hens and we bring back lovely brown or bluish eggs. He proudly announces the colors and carries them to the fridge in the barn. Last week, he made the harsh discovery that smacking the eggs together results in a slimy mess on your coat, hands and shoes. He looked up, his big blue eyes wide open and announced, “Yucky.”

He re-examined the goopy mess dripping from the now empty shells, promptly dropped them and swiveled around to wipe his hands on my clothes. Upon this transfer of slime – he pointed at my knees and proclaimed “mess!” At this point he stomped off to rid himself of the rest of the egg, by chasing down our dog, who was only too happy to oblige by giving him a quick spit bath.

Later that evening, I was running bath water and pulled out a bath bomb to add to the water. Sparky watched it fizz and bubble and demanded another “egg” for the bath. He was sorely disappointed with my response. It really should have been no surprise when the next day, I had just turned off the sweeper, when I heard a thunk from the bathroom. Sure enough, upon investigation, I discovered that Sparky had fetched an egg from the fridge and tossed it into the bathtub. Neither of us were happy with the results.

Later that day, we placed plastic eggs about the yard and gave him a basket to collect his prizes. His response was to stomp on the egg and then carefully examine the remains for who knows what. I was picking up shattered plastic when I noticed him circling something in the yard. I reached him just before he grabbed hold of some choice droppings left there from a neighborhood dog. Not the prize we were hoping he would find.

I’m not holding out a lot of hope for this year’s egg hunt at the park, but at least we know he will have fun; we will bring along an item or two to ensure he has something in his basket. For us, his happy smile will be a bigger prize than any stuffed bunny could ever be.

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