Hunting for...

So we just got home from what was to have been Jackson’s first Easter Egg hunt, at the church where he attends the Mom’s Day Out program.

He’s two.

The hunt was divided into age groups. The third- through fifth-graders went first. Jackon’s age group wouldn’t start until 11am. We arrived just after 10.

He’s two.

There were activity areas set up for kids to color, have an egg-on-a-spoon race, get face-painted, decorate cupcakes, and make various crafts. We made the rounds in 10 minutes flat.

Now what?

Now comes the meltdown, that’s what. We made it through ten months of age two without the violent body spasms I remember from watching other beleaguered parents attempting to calm and control their own toddlers. They always seemed very sad and dejected to me, completely bereft of energy.

That was me today.

I know Jackson’s a toddler. He’s a fledgling communicator who doesn’t understand the subtle nuances of mingling among strangers in a new place. He doesn’t get that Momma would really appreciate it if he didn’t throw himself on the linoleum floor in the middle of the fellowship hall of a church full of people who find that interesting to watch.

I shot my husband a look and exclaimed that I was leaving. He scooped Jackson up and out the door we all went, still ten minutes away from that very elusive Easter Egg hunt.

Moments like these, it’s hard for me not to feel sad. We live 18 hours from family and what I will always consider home. Holidays and special occasions—those are all on me to make the magic that I felt when I was a little one throwing tantrums of my own. It feels about as awkward as those colts learning to walk for the very first time—leggy and fumbling for bearing. I’m glad that Jackson is only two. This means I’ve got time to get it right before he starts to remember.

I have a dozen hard-boiled eggs in my fridge waiting to be decorated. We have an Easter basket full of stuff for him to open in the morning. We have a Fedex box from Mimi and GrandBob for him to open as well. This afternoon, I will put on my mental bunny suit and dutifully hide those eggs in our own yard and watch him delight in finding them and placing them in his Easter basket.

Come to think of it, that seems to be the way our special days work best. Homegrown. Close to the heart. And a very selective guest list.
Momma, Daddy, and Jackson. Perfect, just the way we are.