BigBrother brought home a little “All About My Mom” kind of book from school for Mother’s Day. He answered the questions or finished the statements on each page about me. My oldest son? He’s a smart kid. The end of the statement, “My mother looks prettiest when…” …?

“ALL THE TIMME.”

Smartest. Kid. Ever. Sign him up for MENSA. He wins at being six.

Today my boys loved on me. We colored, ate some food, watched some kids sing a song, read some books. They let me nap for 30 minutes this evening, which made me feel human again.

Of course, they also had to love on FireDad who turned 30 today.

We actually celebrated his birthday on Friday since he doesn’t like to share his day. Okay, it’s not that he doesn’t like to share. Today he made me breakfast and doted on me, so we wanted to make sure he got doted on at some point close to his birthday.

As a birthday present to him, some teenage girl working at the drive-thru when we picked up our iced tea did a double-take, googly-eyed, total check out of his 30-year-old self. As we drove away, he exclaimed, “I still got it!”

Yes you do, my handsome husband. Happy birthday. Welcome to your 30′s. They’re kinda awesome.

I felt those sad twinges of adulthood knowing that I would miss Sunrise Service outdoors at my parents’ church and breakfast in the fellowship hall. There would be no Easter basket full of candy — that I don’t even eat — sitting for me on the hearth of their fireplace. There would be no long walk around The Farm, snapping pictures of spring in progress. It’s not that my husband’s family isn’t wonderful; I just miss mine even more when holidays come around.

Yesterday, however, was possibly the best Easter of my adult life. In my newsletter blurb, I had written that sometimes we carry over the holiday traditions from our families — and sometimes we make new ones. Well, yesterday? We made new ones. Really, really fun new ones. Like laugh-so-hard you nearly pee your pants new ones.

In the future of Easters in Ohio, we will buy cheap kites at the dollar store and pray that it’s so windy, the kites repeatedly break end up in trees — causing us to run all over the yard, laughing and howling and making my mother-in-law’s neighbors think we’re crazy.

And then, once the kites break and the tails are thus free for use, we will become ninjas.

Then the boys will take a great photo together and, as a reward, get to be as silly as they want. Maybe even Easter Zombie silly.

To wind things down, one Easter Ninja and one Booey will put on a duet at the piano, channeling some John Travolta-esque disco moves from time to time.

The good day was also helped along by the fact that the boys were gems in church. And my skirt fit.

Sometimes it’s easy to get caught up in missing what you don’t have, what you’re missing at any given time. Days like yesterday remind me about the importance of living in the moment, blooming where you’re planted. It’s not that I didn’t miss my family and our back-home traditions yesterday; I did. But being present in the awesome, laughable, crazy-lovable antics of the rest of my family was equally important to me, to my husband, to my boys.

I hope someday the boys look back and remember the fun we had on the Easter of 2012. I know I will.

We had a beautiful Easter and hope that you did as well!

“Mommy, how does the Easter Bunny get everywhere in one night?”

“Uh, well, what do you think?”

BigBrother looked out his window in the car; this is where all of life’s most important questions are asked. It took him awhile.

“I don’t know. He’s just a rabbit.”

Muttering under my breath something about the freaking creepy Easter Bunny, I asked him a question. “Well, how does Santa get everywhere in one night? He’s just a human.”

“He uses magic, of course.”

“And so…”

“The Easter Bunny uses magic, too?”

“Perhaps.”

Another pause as he stared at the sky. “If you say so.”

I didn’t really, but that’s where we left it.

– __ — __ –

I had kind of forgotten about that conversation — either because we’ve been so busy with the move or because I didn’t even want to go there — until this afternoon. I was finishing up some work when he busted into my office to ask me a Very Important Question. His question fell by the wayside as he looked at my computer screen which had this (scary) photo up…

Photo Credit: vastateparkstaff via Creative Commons.

…accompanying this article:

That’s right. He was looking at a photo of the Easter Bunny with the word “fake” in the title. In bold.

Crap.

I did some panicked clicking. I made a big deal about whatever he had come into my office to ask me. I sent him on his way. And then stared at my computer for a little while before deciding that I truly hate the Easter Bunny.

We didn’t go get horrific but hilarious Easter Bunny pictures this year despite having gone faithfully for the past five years. I was afraid that the purposefully forgotten but kind of still present conversation would result in a finger-pointing, “You’re-not-real!,” LittleBrother-dream-crashing scene at the mall. I thought avoiding the obviously fake rabbit might extend the magic a little bit longer. I was hoping that none of the kids at school were raining on my son’s Easter parade.

I didn’t realize that I was the most likely dream crusher.

Having kids who can read is a pain in the rear end, let me tell you.

All of that said, I don’t think he actually got to read any of the big, bold words. I think he was too transfixed on the fact that the Easter Bunny looks creepy. Really, really creepy. He was probably thinking to himself, “My Lord! I hope that thing doesn’t come to our house. He looks so weird. Like he might kidnap me and bite my ears off like we do to chocolate bunnies. Maybe he doesn’t know that we moved yet and won’t find us. Why does he LOOK like THAT? NIGHTMARES!”

All the same, I may have padded their Easter baskets a little more this evening out of work-at-home, dream-crushing, mommy guilt.

It’s been fun for me for the past few years, doing my own little meme, so I thought I’d invite you to participate.

The best part? You can participate however you want, in whatever way 17 Days of Green means to you.

You can wear green for 17 days straight.

2010, Day 7

To be honest, I could probably go for well over a month — or two — without repeating any pieces of green clothing. But you can repeat if you want; I will as certain things don’t fit right now. And it doesn’t have to be green from head to toe. A necklace, some socks, a pair of shoes, a belt. (Of note: I don’t have a green belt. I should remedy this!) Just wear it. Fierce-like.

Or you could photograph something green for 17 days.

2011, Day 6

Find something green in your day — like lily sprouts in the snow. There’s lots of greening in the first 17 days of March (or so we hope), so it’s pretty easy to do. St. Patrick’s Day decorations count. The whole photo doesn’t have to be green; like mine above, just finding a bit of green in the midst of other color is a great little challenge.

Or you could do something green every day. I don’t know what all that entails for you, but as an idea, Dr. Seuss’ birthday is March 2nd.

2010, Green Eggs and Ham, yo!

Other “doing” ideas: paint with green, play with green play-doh, green fingernails, buy a green balloon and carry it around all day, plant a tree (dual “green” message there) and on and on and on.

And, of course, you can bake something green every day.

2010, Key lime cupcakes, recipe here.

I don’t know what you could bake every day for 17 days. Cupcakes. Cookies. Pies. Cakes. Muffins. That’s a lot of green. Throw some spinach in some muffins? Go for it.

I’ll be wearing green for 17 days, finishing off with a crazy outfit in Pittsburgh for the St. Patrick’s Day parade and festivities on the 17th. I’m hoping to blog my greenery every day as a fun way to kick myself back into blogging in my own space, in my own voice. We’ll see though. I’ll also be on Instagram with #17daysofgreen, so be sure to tag if you’re playing there too!

Whether or not you participate in 17 Days of Green, I hope you enjoy following along. It may not be easy being green, but it sure is fun.

“No. Put these back.”

“But why? They’re so cute!”

“There are hearts on them.”

“What’s wrong with hearts?”

“I don’t like hearts.”

“You HATE LOVE?”

– __ — __ —

I don’t hate love. Hearts maybe, but not love.

If you have ever spent time with me in February, you know that I don’t get excited about Valentine’s Day. FireDad and I don’t “celebrate” the “holiday.” There are no gifts. There is no expectation of gifts. We don’t exchange cards — though I occasionally break the rules and give him a snort-worthy card from Robin Plemmons who I didn’t know when I first starting giving them to him and then I met her at Type-A and now am even more amused because he met her at BlogHer ’11 as well. Also, I don’t like chocolate. No really.

I just can’t get into the fanfare. Like disliking chocolate — and hearts — something is probably inherently wrong with me.

But I don’t hate love.

– __ — __ –

I helped BigBrother get to school today with his Spiderman valentine cards to give his friends. He didn’t have to make and take a box this year as his teacher helped each student make one that apparently looks like a bear; I can’t wait to see it. I reminded him to be on his best behavior since everyone was bound to be keyed up today.

He jumped out and left me behind.

I smiled as I drove away, heading back home to get busy on my day which does, in fact, involve heart shaped things. I pulled up to a nearby intersection and saw something on the road. At first they looked like baseball cards. As the words, “that’s odd,” popped into one side of my brain, my poor, anti-Valentine, Grinchy little heart realized what I was seeing scattered across an intersection two blocks from the school.

Valentines.

A line of cars waited behind me, so I continued all the way home. I parked in my driveway. I went inside. I got more coffee. I sat down. I got back up again. I got back in my car. I drove back to the intersection.

I just kept imagining some poor child, dropping his Valentine’s on the way to school. Maybe not noticing. Maybe too scared to stand in the middle of a busy morning intersection and pick them up. Maybe running late and not wanting to get in trouble. It was all I could do to keep from crying, worrying about this child’s Valentine’s Day tragedy. That stuff stick with you forever — like the time I got dumped in 8th grade on Valentine’s Day. Harsh.

I parked my car, got out, walked to the scattered Valentines, picked one up and found… that they weren’t Valentines at all. They were Glidden paint chip cards. Be still my heart! No child was sobbing on his teacher at school. No child was sitting in the office waiting to call her mom. Valentine’s Day is not ruined!

I got back in the car, circling back around to our house.

And laughed really hard at myself.

For a Self-Professed Anti-Valentiner, I did get awfully emotional about some child’s scattered valentines.

I don’t hate love.

I hate forced acts of love. I hate hearts and chocolate and doilies. I hate when people in relationships — men or women — expect things from their partner just because it’s a holiday. Or any day really as I hate entitlement. But I love love. I love people doing something for other people because they want to, not because they’re expected to. I love people doing something out of the goodness of the heart. I left my house, unshowered with my hair in a crazy messy bun and no makeup on my face, prepared to walk into my son’s school with muddy Valentines in order to save an unknown child’s holiday — a holiday that I don’t even like. I was overjoyed when I didn’t have to, but I would have done it.

I don’t hate love.

Now excuse me while I go turn on an Anti-Valentine’s Day playlist on Spotify. I’ve been horribly sappy today and need to get my detox started now. (But, before I run off and put on all black, go ahead and read this beautiful love story. I got weepy. See, I’m not heartless.)

BigBrother crawled into bed with us at his normal waking time on Christmas morning. We had instructed him not to go to the living room; just to make a pit stop and come straight to our room. He did as he was told, as he is wont to do. He flipped and flopped in between us. I felt the excitement radiating from every surface of his little body. Christmas is here. Eventually, he spoke aloud.

“I am so excited.” And he paused. I figured he was going to say something about presents or to see what Santa had left or even mention his specific, highly-desired present. I waited, ready to come back with my line that we get what Santa brings us and we’ll be thankful no matter what.

He continued. “About that egg sandwich.”

We had decided, the previous day, that for Christmas morning breakfast — after the presents were opened and coffee was consumed — we would have egg sandwiches for breakfast. We’ve never made egg sandwiches at home, defaulting to scrambled or dippy or other variations of eggs when we have them for breakfast, so the thought of an egg sandwich was new and different. And apparently exciting. And thus a tradition has been born.

Later in the day, after all of the presents had been opened, food had been consumed and the exhaustion was beginning to set in, we started to make our way back home. It was dark, the lights on people’s houses giving us all something to look at as we silently made our way back over the river and through the woods. As always, BigBrother had something to say.

“Mommy, wasn’t it so nice…”

I waited.

“To see all of our family today?”

It was. Even nicer was to hear that my oldest son understood and appreciated that part as well. My heart grew three sizes and I breathed a bit easier. We must be doing something right. And still, he pressed it.

“It was just such a nice Christmas. Nothing went wrong.”

I agreed with him, missing that innocence of youth. I could name umpteen number of things that went wrong on Christmas day. I forgot two pretty cool presents for the boys in the back of the car. My mother-in-law felt pretty bad that she burned FireDad’s favorite pie. My back was a mess, as always. When we got home, the furnace was acting up. And so on. But to him — to both boys — it had been a perfect Christmas.

Of family. Of traditions, new and old.

Best Christmas ever, for sure.

We are:

• exhausted
• stuffed
• knee-deep in boxes, bags and wrapping paper
• blessed with the love of family and friends.

Merry Christmas. And to all a good night!

But I didn’t. Enjoy this blog post variation on card-mailing theme.

And, of course, Merry Christmas.