There’s something about dying Easter
eggs that brings out the comedian in my family.
Make that five comedians. Between
the four kids and St. Bob (really the fifth child), it’s a competition to see
who can create the most hilarious egg.
I, on the other hand (the truly saintly
mom, of course), want this to be a reminder of Spring, and of New Life, and
Christ’s Resurrection after all, and thus I color my eggs in properly dainty
pastels, neatly striped and artistically swirled. Fat rubber bands block out areas of the egg
not to be dyed, and when removed, they reveal an easy two-tone stripe.
Rubber cement does the same thing, only in curves and brush strokes,
reminding me that I am just like Martha Stewart, minus the prison time.
I’m also a huge fan of dying eggs
with silk neckties, and if you want to see how to transfer those patterns to
your own eggs, click here.
My children, on the other hand,
think it’s funny to sketch a knife on the egg, then paint blood oozing from a
crack they drew with a Sharpie. Brandon
takes delight in painting his eggs camouflage, thus rendering them completely
invisible for the outdoor egg hunt. One
year they competed for most disgusting color.
It was a brownish algae hue, as I recall.
Cassidy forgets the iron etiquette
rule of dying, namely Thou Shalt Not Dip the Purple Spoon Into the Yellow Cup,
and within minutes, all the cups contain a gray liquid resembling Thai meatball
soup.
Nicole, at thirteen, could apply
makeup to her eggs better than a makeup artist, creating faces complete with
blush and eyeliner. Nobody but me cringed
when those same eggs were later cracked and peeled, an eery experience once I’d
gotten used to the new “people.”
Richie invented a new technique a few years ago, and none of
us have been able to copy him so far. He
somehow spins the egg on one end so fast, that he can hold out a soft-tip
marker, and make dozens of skinny lines in one continuous spiral. Of course, he uses ink that smears when it
gets wet. And, naturally, grass is
wet. So any kid who picks up this egg is
in for a permanent surprise.
Bob, who likes to keep his shirt
clean, is the most reluctant participant in this dye-splashing, egg-cracking
eggstravaganza. He always chooses one
egg, and one egg only, then takes his time to drizzle colors exactly where he
wants them. His egg looks like a Monet
pond and lily pads, reflecting irises conveniently scattered near the
banks.
The rest of our eggs suddenly look like the result of a game
for psychotics who were blindfolded and told to paint their problems.
Finally the deed is done, and it’s time to fight over who
gets to empty out which dye cup into the sink, to ooh and aah over the gross
combinations swirling down the drain.
Newspaper that looks like modern art is gathered up and tossed, and new
stains are discovered on everyone’s clothes.
Eggs are stored in the refrigerator for the Easter Bunny to discover
during the night. Somehow, we all go to
bed smiling, our fingertips odd shades of blue and orange, our kitchen smelling
of sulfur and vinegar, and cellophane grass stuffed into all our baskets,
awaiting Peeps and chocolate Bunnies. And
we know it’s Easter once again.
It may be too late to
order my books for your Easter baskets, but Mother’s Day is coming up, so hie
thee to this link, and your shopping will be done!
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