We’re three hours into the Easter holidays and I’m already thinking of telling them Easter Sunday is tomorrow. Would it be so wrong? It is after all a moveable feast. There are already a couple of Easter Eggs eyeing them from the top of the dresser and they want to eat them. How do you explain to two little boys that they have to wait a week and two days before chocolate eating extravaganza?
The toddler has asked me five times in the last hour if it was Easter Sunday yet? Can we eat them as breakfast on Easter Sunday? How many can we eat? Which one will we eat first? Is my egg bigger than his? What time do other children get up to eat them?
Aren’t they funny? Simply put. No. People continue to tell me at every sigh to enjoy them now while they are young. While their problems are small. I am. I do. I get it. They’re adorable. I love them but they’re not cute 24 hours a day. You get the moments that take your breathe away regularly enough, smiles that leave you on the verge of tears brimming with pride but as for answering incessant questions on Easter eggs, I ran out of steam an hour ago. I’m on automatic pilot, looking at the clock, knowing that I will be cooking the dinner with two very lovely boys sitting at the counter asking me questions about chocolate. And I know that someday I will miss these moments. Sadly, I know.
The cows continue to calve. The farmer continues to be missing in action somewhere in the farmyard. Today he’s spreading slurry. It never ends.
These are the ramblings of a farmer’s wife tired of Springtime. One who has started the post baby diet. Left craving chocolate.
Is it Easter Sunday yet?