So, as I told you last time, our neighborhood put a little Easter egg hunt together of the local kids. After some practice at home, I felt prepared for the true egg-collecting mission. Well, let me just preface this next bit by saying: I love my parents. They are well-intentioned (being that their intention is to help me in any way possible). But sometimes, they get it wrong. For example, this Easter egg hunt. Calling it it a "hunt" is really a misnomer. I had trained for seeking out brightly colored plastic eggs thoughtfully placed within a natural setting. What I encountered was multiple piles of plastic eggs dumped in the playground, each pile designated for a certain age group. And the pile for the up to three-year-olds? It was on a concrete slab. Not exactly the bucolic experience I had been expecting. It was also super loud. Frankly, I was a little stymied by the whole affair. At least Mom and Dad got the plastic egg bit right, and eventually I got it too.
Sidenote: Do you see that girl in the pink dress running behind us? Well, she is definitely older than three, and my mom had some choice words for her. Apparently the older kids in her area got all the eggs and left her with none, so she decided to come take the eggs from the smallest kids. Appalling! That's what I heard my mom say...along with Where are her parents? and something about That's how despots are made. Oh, Mom, sometimes you are a little spicy.
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