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Forget Easter, Just Give Me the Chocolate!

by Terrye

Peeps ain’t got nutin’ on US!

As far back as I can remember I have had a love/hate relationship with all things Easter. While most kids where honing their egg hunting skills, I was masterminding a way to get out of the festivities; Sunday School Easter Pageant and the following Easter Egg Hunt. My mother loved this particular holiday more than any other because it heralded in the beginnings of spring. After seven months of winter and an unhealthy dose of cabin-freakin-fever, my Oklahoma born mom was ready to say “piss off, winter!” and move on.

Maybe if my birthday wasn’t the first week of April, this particular holiday wouldn’t rub me the wrong way. Every few years, Easter and my birthday collide in an epic f-you. The worst one occurred when I was in the 5th grade. My mother got a wild hair (yeah, I know – bad pun) and decided to have an Easter themed birthday party, yay me.

Like this but 100 times worse.

There were Easter decorations everywhere. She made pastel colored, egg shaped birthday cakes. Even the invitations had damn bunnies and eggs on them. We played pin the cotton ball on the cotton tail. When I thought it couldn’t get ANY worse, every single present I opened was a f*cking stuffed Easter bunny. No kidding. I got 13 of the little bastards, which promptly got tossed into the back of my closet after the last guest left. I smiled and thanked all my friends for humoring my mom but silently added them to my list of “Those That Shall Pay for Their Treachery” when I conquer the world.

Typical Spring Time in Alaska.

The next day, we headed off to Sunday school in our best outfits complete with perky little baskets filled with plastic grass. Mind you, the average temperature in Anchorage, Alaska in April is in the high 20s and low 30s. Why my mother would think it was warm enough to wear spring dresses, white hose, and white patent leather shoes was beyond me. I was a Popsicle before I made it to the truck. To add insult to injury, by the time I thawed out, it was time to head back outside. The adults thought it was great fun to watch us compete against other mostly frozen children as we zombie shuffled towards tinfoil wrapped chocolate eggs thrown atop frozen mud and crunchy ice covered grass. Occasionally, one of us would happen upon a plastic egg with a note inside promising us one of the coveted white leather children’s bibles. It became a game of avoiding the plastic eggs. If we did find one, we’d hide it in some other basket and take a candy in exchange for our generosity and thoughtfulness.

Make. It. End!

After all the eggs were collected, we now completely frozen children, would find our parents and endure the scolding for getting our nice clothes covered in mud and ruining our shoes by getting them soaking wet. My mom took it a step further and would chastise me for having too much candy in my basket and immediately confiscate it. That woman could peel a chocolate egg and pop it into her mouth faster than a cheetah could take down gazelle.

The only thing I did enjoy about the Easters of my childhood was the wonderful ham dinners complete with deviled eggs. The egg farts my brother and father would let loose later on…not so much.

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