Maternal Easter Insanity
Yesterday, I paid 30 bucks so my kids could sit on a giant bunny's lap and I got the pictures to prove it. It's like seasonal insanity. Some holiday hits and I completely lose all grips on reality. In reality, a teenage girl puts on a big fuzzy yellow bunny costume and lets my children sit on her lap whilst her girlfriend snaps crappy pictures with her digital camera and then prints them out on less than premium photo paper and I pay an outrageous sum of money which is sure to end up buying a Britney Spears CD.
So basically all I did this weekend was contribute to Britney's megamillions which supports her lavish lifestyle including trips to Vegas where she marries some poor sap only to divorce him hours later. It all boils down to the destruction of American marriages and how the Easter bunny at the mall is, at least in some small part, responsible.
Falling prey to the Easter-Bunny-at-the-Mall trap isn't all I did this weekend. I also dressed my kids up in pastel outfits with little duckies on them and forced bunny ears upon their heads. Then I put them in various poses and bribed them to smile. Reilly is easily bribed with candy or some such forbidden sweet. Roman is harder to bribe. Basically, I have to flash him a boob since breastmilk is the only thing he eats. Picture it if you will: My two kids in bunny ears and me shaking my bazongas and making yummy noises while dangling candy with one hand and snapping pictures with my other. Yet another example of my maternal holiday insanity.
I also dyed Easter eggs with Reilly Kate. She has quite the future in egg dying. Straight away, she picked up an egg, eschewing the dipper and instead used her hands like an eggy Jackson Pollack or something. Dip in here, dip in there, dip dip dip. I really thought they'd turn out horribly. Much to my surprise, however, they looked like a psychodelic, tie dye job. Really quite colorful. I watched her carefully for several minutes and tried to imitate her moves. Every egg I made turned brown and ugly. It's all in the wrist, I'm sure.
The problem with Reilly Kate and egg dying is really the drying part. She thinks that once you finish with the dying you then pick up the egg and either throw it on the floor, crack it on the table, or just plain take a big old bite out of it, shell and all. We now have a dozen beautifully colored but cracked and bitten eggs as well as the dozen ugly brown eggs I made. We'll be eating a lot of egg salad in the next few days.
I am trying, though, to impart the spiritual meaning of Easter on my kids. I want them to know that it is more than just giant fuzzy mall bunnies, psychodelic cracked eggs, and Mama's boobs. Being that it is Palm Sunday, we took the kids to the local Lutheran church. As I was busily snapping pictures of them in their bunny ears before we left, I must have told her we were going to God's house to see Jesus. Reilly loves Jesus. She's a big fan.
When we walked in, Reilly announced, "Jesus isn't here. I don't see him. He's not here." I assured her that he was, that indeed this is Jesus' house. "No, it's not," she stated most matter of factly, "I can't see him anywhere! Where is him?"
"He's up there," I pointed to the altar. "He's up by the cross."
"No, he's NOT!!! Wheeeeere is heeeeeeeeeee?!?!?!"
She was starting to get agitated at this point and I didn't want to have a scene. So I said, "Ask your father."
Mike answered without even looking up from the hymnal, "He's thinking." Now, I'm not sure if it was Mike who was thinking or if it was Jesus, but it shut Reilly up for the moment which was the goal. We all settled in and I thought the subject was forgotten about. However, as soon as the processional began and she caught a glimpse of the pastor, she shouted, "There he is!! That's Jesus right there!!!"
"No," I corrected her. "He works for Jesus. Jesus is his boss. Just like you are Mama's boss." I let out a little chuckle at my snide witticism, thinking myself quite clever.
She nodded. She is clear on the concept now. Jesus is too busy thinking to actually appear in church and pastor is his Mama.
I should have just stuck to eggs, boobs, and bunnies.
So basically all I did this weekend was contribute to Britney's megamillions which supports her lavish lifestyle including trips to Vegas where she marries some poor sap only to divorce him hours later. It all boils down to the destruction of American marriages and how the Easter bunny at the mall is, at least in some small part, responsible.
Falling prey to the Easter-Bunny-at-the-Mall trap isn't all I did this weekend. I also dressed my kids up in pastel outfits with little duckies on them and forced bunny ears upon their heads. Then I put them in various poses and bribed them to smile. Reilly is easily bribed with candy or some such forbidden sweet. Roman is harder to bribe. Basically, I have to flash him a boob since breastmilk is the only thing he eats. Picture it if you will: My two kids in bunny ears and me shaking my bazongas and making yummy noises while dangling candy with one hand and snapping pictures with my other. Yet another example of my maternal holiday insanity.
I also dyed Easter eggs with Reilly Kate. She has quite the future in egg dying. Straight away, she picked up an egg, eschewing the dipper and instead used her hands like an eggy Jackson Pollack or something. Dip in here, dip in there, dip dip dip. I really thought they'd turn out horribly. Much to my surprise, however, they looked like a psychodelic, tie dye job. Really quite colorful. I watched her carefully for several minutes and tried to imitate her moves. Every egg I made turned brown and ugly. It's all in the wrist, I'm sure.
The problem with Reilly Kate and egg dying is really the drying part. She thinks that once you finish with the dying you then pick up the egg and either throw it on the floor, crack it on the table, or just plain take a big old bite out of it, shell and all. We now have a dozen beautifully colored but cracked and bitten eggs as well as the dozen ugly brown eggs I made. We'll be eating a lot of egg salad in the next few days.
I am trying, though, to impart the spiritual meaning of Easter on my kids. I want them to know that it is more than just giant fuzzy mall bunnies, psychodelic cracked eggs, and Mama's boobs. Being that it is Palm Sunday, we took the kids to the local Lutheran church. As I was busily snapping pictures of them in their bunny ears before we left, I must have told her we were going to God's house to see Jesus. Reilly loves Jesus. She's a big fan.
When we walked in, Reilly announced, "Jesus isn't here. I don't see him. He's not here." I assured her that he was, that indeed this is Jesus' house. "No, it's not," she stated most matter of factly, "I can't see him anywhere! Where is him?"
"He's up there," I pointed to the altar. "He's up by the cross."
"No, he's NOT!!! Wheeeeere is heeeeeeeeeee?!?!?!"
She was starting to get agitated at this point and I didn't want to have a scene. So I said, "Ask your father."
Mike answered without even looking up from the hymnal, "He's thinking." Now, I'm not sure if it was Mike who was thinking or if it was Jesus, but it shut Reilly up for the moment which was the goal. We all settled in and I thought the subject was forgotten about. However, as soon as the processional began and she caught a glimpse of the pastor, she shouted, "There he is!! That's Jesus right there!!!"
"No," I corrected her. "He works for Jesus. Jesus is his boss. Just like you are Mama's boss." I let out a little chuckle at my snide witticism, thinking myself quite clever.
She nodded. She is clear on the concept now. Jesus is too busy thinking to actually appear in church and pastor is his Mama.
I should have just stuck to eggs, boobs, and bunnies.
posted by The Histrionics of a Fat Housewife at 1:52 AM
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