733. Walking On Eggshells Starts With "E"

You get in the car and drive an hour to the in-laws.  You subconsciously (or consciously) don’t really want to spend your Sunday this way, but what choice do you have?  Your mother-in-law hijacked this holiday years ago and now it is tradition. 

The boys, God bless them, are excited.  You are, at least, happy for that.  They have been jabbering all morning about what colors they plan to decorate their Easter eggs. 

“Maybe a red striped design,” offers the younger one, “or blue polka dots!” 

“Don’t be silly!” exclaims the older one as he shakes his head dismissively.  “Grandmom doesn’t have anything to make such a complicated pattern!  I plan to do a yellow and turquoise spider web with orange spiders and fluorescent bugs.” 

You arrive late because you kept stalling when it was time to get ready.  Your mother-in-law gives you a perfunctory hug but zooms over to your young sons, the real reason for the visit.  “Boys!  How are you!  Come in and let’s see your cousins!” 

Everyone is already at the table, decorating the eggs.  Your sons get settled in immediately.  There is no chair for you.  You stand.  You are used to it. 

You glance at your watch, trying not to be obvious about it:  12 noon.  Judging by how many eggs are already completed, they must’ve started an hour ago. 

The boys take rubber bands and stretch them around the eggs.  They dip the eggs in rainbow colors.  Your older son has green dye dripping down his thumb.  He looks like he murdered a frog. 

Your mother-in-law makes ham sandwiches for everyone and offers you a soda.  You wonder if it would be improper to ask for a glass of wine.  Your husband gives you a look, a look that says, “Do not ask for wine, I know you are thinking about it,” and you hear your voice say Coke, please. 

Time slows and bends and drips and stops and migrates backwards.  Time is a Salvador Dali painting.  You look at the kitchen clock, because you know it has been about three hours and you wonder if you can go yet.  It has been 10 minutes. 

In the yard, the older cousins hide plastic eggs filled with candies in artificial fruit flavors.  Some of the eggs have dollar bills in them.  You wonder if any of them have a one way ticket to Hawaii.  Or the moon. 

The boys run wild outside, shrieking as they find the eggs.  This isn’t so bad, you tell yourself, they are having fun. 

The younger one, the candy-obsessed one, opens his eggs.  Dollar after dollar after dollar tumble out.  He cries real tears, thinking he has been cheated out of candy. 

You go back in to check on the finished eggs sitting in the dye.  You count how many each son has done:  four each.  They both have 14 more to do.  At this rate, you might get to go home sometime next week. 

Miraculously, your husband finally says you need to get going.  You are internally congratulating yourself on marrying someone who is clearly a mind-reader.  You all walk outside and somehow get stuck talking to a neighbor.  The boys go back in and everyone forgets that you were supposed to be leaving. 

It is now 5 PM, time for dinner.  You must leave or you will go insane. 

You get in the car and sit in traffic.  The boys bicker all the way home.  You walk in your front door and notice the clock on the fireplace mantle reads 6:30.  You set the decorated eggs on the front table and forget about them.  You pick up the phone.  The pizza place confirms your address, and says they will be there in half an hour. 

The next day, you remember the decorated eggs sitting on the front table.  You are forced to throw them out. 

Your sons find them in the trash.  They pull them out and proclaim them to be “perfectly good.”  Without you knowing, your younger son hides them. 

You smell something very bad, but have no idea where it is coming from.  You tear the house apart and find the rotten eggs.  You are missing one egg.    

You are not a fan of Easter this year.