Norman Rockwell It Ain't.

Happy Easter!

Love,
The Confused Todder (Awake Since 1:45am)
The Jellybean Thief (Vibrating With Sugar In The Background)
The Crab Apple Gal (Pondering A 4th Cup Of Coffee)
And The Determined Guy (Having A Magical Day, DARN IT.)

Easter Is A Full Contact Sport.

Those are some pretty special-looking eggs.

I spent a good part of last week preparing for Easter with the girls (and Peej).

We made paper Easter bunnies and plastered them to our front window. We braided traditional Armenian cheoreg biscuits to consume on Easter morning. Eggs were [carefully] dyed. We even unleashed the girls onto a wealthy neighborhood's egg hunt. Everything was in place for a cinchy, relaxing, and nice Easter morning.

Even though P.J. wanted to go to 8am mass at our church (to beat the crowds!), which is precisely two hours earlier than the usual mass that we attend/stroll into five minutes later. No worries. Because everything was set.

And even though Nora woke up at 3:30 in the morning, laughing like a loon AT NOTHING, we didn't worry. She'd fall back to sleep and be rarin' by 6ish. And when Suzy woke for the day at 5:45am- roughly an hour and a half early than normal- we still didn't fret. RELAXING, RESTFUL SUNDAY MORNING, that's us.

The girls discovered their Easter baskets- and indeed, Nora found Susannah's first and had to be pried away from it to continue searching for her own- and settled in to play with their pinwheels, Where's Waldo books, and new sippy cups. (For the allotted ten minutes before breakfast. Did I mention that we had to leave the house at 7:45?)

Nora actually went willingly to the breakfast table- perhaps fueled by an extra kick of sugar along the way- and was thrilled about the imminent egg wars. (My sisters and I have always thwacked Easter eggs against each others' eggs. The one whose egg comes through unscathed is declared the winner forever and ever Amen.)

She picked up a vibrant teal egg. I chose my trusty cherry red creation. She came at me with her egg.

It exploded.

BECAUSE THE EGGS WERE STILL RAW INSIDE.

Why? I have no flipping idea. It's not rocket science, nor is this my first rodeo. I've boiled eggs before. Like, on every Easter prior since I've had my own apartment. (Also, any time I want egg salad.) So I know how to play the game.

I was now covered in splattered egg whites and, by the time that I cleaned it all up, my allotted five minutes for breakfast was way beyond up. So I devolved into what P.J. would kindly term "a mood." He offered to scramble some eggs. I bit off his head and yelled that there was NO TIME. So I proceeded to re-hardboil the eggs, stripping them of any remaining lovely colors. P.J. attempted to help me walk away from the eggs, just walk away, but I was beyond reason. So I added a bunch of food coloring into the boiling water- all of the colors, in fact.

During this time, Nora and Susannah ate their [remaining] breakfast slowly, watching me with more than a little trepidation.

The result was a batch of weirdly purplish eggs, most of which cracked on their way to the pan. They were also entirely too hot to consume. Eat up, kids!

By now it was 7:30 and we needed to leave in fifteen minutes. I ran upstairs, gesturing wildly/rudely at my husband, and tossed on some semblance of non-wrinkly appropriateness. By the time I came back downstairs, P.J. had dressed Suzy in her starched white dress with blue trim- and it promptly wrinkled itself into oblivion. (Thanks for nothing, STARCH.) I wrangled Nora into her dress and attempted to take a sister picture of my two Easter bunnies- while Peej announced that he needed to go shave. (What? WHAT? If I had known we were taking the time for personal grooming, well then, I would have added another step or two upstairs, friend.)

The picture-taking was an abysmal failure. That's all. Just- abysmal.

A cross-section of the mayhem.

And we left the house at 8:02.

When we got to the church, it was jammed. We were led upstairs to the choir loft (which, okay, initially I was stoked about because, you know- I got to play in the choir loft!) But the view was terrible (except for an occasional glimpse of empty middle rows downstairs, come ON), and ridiculously poor audio...until P.J. turned the speakers on.

Followed up by a little boy turning it off again- ha ha! Great game! Another lady allowed her kids to run around and play video games on her phone. Someone behind me was snoring.

But Zuzu slept on me, filling me with a sense of peace (and also longing for some sleep of my own), and Nora happily placed ladybug stickers all over everything. Peej and I held hands. The sun was shining. And- despite everything that had happened in the morning and the fact that we could not hear a thing- it was a lovely service. We decided to hit the reset button on the morning's craziness and enjoy the rest of the day together. This cheerful proclamation filled us with a renewed sense of purpose for our morning.

And it lasted until we all stood up and realized that the fly on P.J.'s suit had been down the whole time.

No babies were harmed during this posting. I'm pretty sure.

If this jinxes it then I am sorry, but...it seems to be Spring. Real Spring. Like, average of 50 degrees (sometimes 85! Sometimes...40), at times darned rainy, but always with that smell of fresh(ish) air. And perhaps that scent coming from the neighbor's yard. But whatever. I'll take it.

This past week alone I took Nora outside in no less than five baby-totin' contraptions: the Maya sling, the hip carrier (as in, on my hip- I have lost all hopes of being "hip." Which may not even be a word anymore), the Snap n' go stroller with the carseat, the Maclaren strolly...and straight up carrying her. Wild, I know.

She loves every single one of these ways of being held. Really. In the sling: "I love grabbing your hair and chewing on your collarbone!" The carrier: "I'm going to happily kick you in the belly and back simultaneously!" The Snap n' go: "Look at you looking at me in the garage!" The Maclaren: "These big girl straps are fabulous- as long as we stay in the dining room!" And carrying: "Do not let my wild noodle/starfish amalgamation dance convince you that I am not THRILLED to be in your arms!"

Until...we go outside.

Then it's the same pose, regardless of contraption: face against mine (if applicable), hands acting as blinders against the awful onslaught that is Fresh(ish) Air. If she's in her stroller, she takes a blanket, animal, extra fabric from the suncover- whatever- and holds it to her face.

And this prompts some well-meaning person to "suggest" that Nora probably can't breathe.

To which I reply that I'll promise to keep an eye on her!

And on the topic of advice...in my short time as a mother and my lengthy time as one being unable to receive constructive criticism, I've realized that there are two types of acceptable advice. They are as follows:

Timely: "Oh my goodness, your child is floating away!" This is especially helpful if you didn't know that your child was floating away.

and...

Jovial relating: "I remember that my son used to love floating away! Sometimes I tie him to the dock, though. Have you ever thought of that? Isn't having children fun?" This is okay because it a) makes you feel like you're not an awful parent and b) makes you feel like you're in a secret club. Secret clubs are fun.

The type that is not okay is Talking At Someone And Refusing To Stop Until You Agree To Rear Your Child Identically To Theirs. For example, "My kid hated the water. I wouldn't put yours in the water. Have you thought of having her tested for water allergies?" These people have Experience and they need to be stopped. This type of advice-giver Means Well and belongs to the club of That's Not How We Did It In My Day.

Which is quite possibly true.

But a long time ago people used iodine as suntan oil and sold women as property. These were not the same two time periods, but I think I've made my point.

I think it's safe to assume that if the mother-like person is nearish to the small, babylike person and- (and this is a big 'and')- the child is not aflame, submerged or has something poking in or out of them, we can all rest assured that the semi-competent adult is On It.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to make sure that my stomach-sleepin', binky-mashin' infant hasn't wrapped her blanket around her head.

But not before I eat three more of the Easter cheoreg biscuits- the recipe for which has been passed down from my Armenian nana...and tastes more like my Irish nana's soda bread. I am not the world's best baker- I admit this. However, they are tasty, they are sweet, they are portable.

Victory.

And maybe perhaps I'll snag some more of Nora's Easter candy. She loves the coconut Hershey's kisses and Reese's mini cups. She does.

But not as much as her parents love playing Easter Bunny. Just as good as playing Santa, in my opinion. Cannot wait to try out "Tooth Fairy."

But, I really can. I'm enjoying the heck out of my five month-old daughter's daily routine and am not gonna rush this aging process AT ALL. Although, it'll be nice when she can hold the beer bottle on her own.

My arms get tired by the end of the day.