It’s been brought to my attention by the letters O, C, and D that I have posted a decided lack of pictures since my new wordpress upgrade fails to allow me to scale my pictures appropriately. But, in the name of Rotavirus, I will say “eff THAT shit” and post it anyway.
Easter has long been one of my favorite holidays, in spite of the fact that April always seems to be An Asshole of a month (February is always the worst, though). I love it anyway, and I’m ever-optimistic that This Year Will Be Better. It never is, but my glaring stupidity and utter inability to learn from past experiences allows me to become excited about it every year, like clockwork.
This year was no different. I was hopeful and happy to be hosting my annual Easter Brunch. Then, the stomach flu hit us and suddenly, I was not so happy.
You might even say that I was UN-happy.
See, now, this was what Daver and I did on Easter Eve: we filled a fucking ton of small eggs with the sorts of candy that my grubby hands will leave alone. Like jelly beans *shudder, shudder.*
Also: we drink heavily.
And we mock the fact that I routinely forget that I’ve already bought stuff for (insert holiday here) and I buy more. Until it looks like I might, perhaps, have a soccer team of children. Which I assure you will never grace my uterus.
The following morning however, the joke was on us. Because my eldest had gotten sick during the night yet again, we had to postpone the Easter Egg hunt. So now I have a fucking ridiculous ton of small eggs in a bag in my closet simply waiting for the Right Time For A Hunt.
Or maybe I’ll just throw them back in my Easter Bin in the basement for next year. It’s not like anyone actually EATS the candy.
Then, the oven I needed to cook the delicious (pre-packaged) morsels of goodness (read: cinnamon rolls) simply refused to turn on. Fucking asshole oven. I will punch that bitch in the face.
So, then Ben was off with his father rather than force him to sit around and watch other people eat the deliciousness that is my Easter Brunch. That somehow seemed crueler to me than merely sending him off. He was happy, I should rightly add, to go.
We were down a kid, sadly, the one that was most excited about Easter.
This is a stock photo, taken on Tuesday of last week, because I had no desire to document for posterity the barfiness that was poor Benny.
My middle son, he was just thrilled by a ball. The eggs, the baskets, the candy, they were stupid and boring. Especially compared to a big red ball.
And my wee daughter, she would simply like to tell The Internet that her mother is both cruel AND unusual. Why else would she be forced to wear this?
Or one of those Head Garters everyone hates?
Ah, the therapy they will all need.