168. Easter weekend

Easter week-end. It means a long week-end for everyone. The whole family together for three relaxing days. No work. No homework. No stress.

My husband gets up early as usual - really early - to walk the dog. When he gets back he brings me a cup of coffee and says: 

'I've hidden some eggs in the garden.'

'Don't you think they're a bit old for that?'

'No way. You're never too old for a bit of fun. And they'd do anything for chocolate. You watch.'

When I get downstairs I see there is a bit of paper stuck on the French window. It's a sheet of A4 and on it is written in my husband's appalling handwriting: 'EGG HUNT IN GARDEN. FIND TEN chocolates. Then STOP LOOKING. Leave some for others.'

Baby comes down first. She peers at the paper stuck on the window. 

'Do we have to hunt for eggs in the garden?'

She sounds incredulous, offended and excited at the same time. 

'Yes! I can see one already.' And she is out there in the cold in her PJs looking for her allocated ration.

It is actually a good idea to count them. Previous years have seen some chocolates left undiscovered and to be found over the following moths: one in the barbecue when we got it going again in summer, one at the base of some plant when it withered in autumn, ... At least this year none of that, there are 15 big chocolate eggs to be found. If the worst comes to the worst, my husband can go back out and retrieve them from their hiding place.

Maths-Head comes down. She too has a sheet of A4 paper. She slams it on the fridge with the strongest magnet from our collection.

'That's my revision schedule. Please take note and make sure you do NOT disturb me.'

I look at it.

'Looks like we won't see much of you: breakfast at 6:00 AM, lunch at 11:30 ... '

I try to lighten the atmosphere.

'The Easter bunny's been in the garden. ... Just in case you're interested. But I see it is not on your schedule so maybe I ...'

She too looks offended with an added touch of outrage; yet just as with her younger sister the excitement of hunting for chocolate on a chilly morning is irresistible. She does not even complain about the allocated ration not taking into account things like weight, percentage of cocoa beans, ratio fat/sugar in the eggs or goodness knows what other considerations. She is out like a flash and races throughout he garden as if this was the last ten meters of an olympic run. Back inside, she tells me:

'I could have got them all. Some of them are not very well hidden. Dad's lost the knack of hiding them really well, I think.'

'I think he thought you teenagers would give up quickly and leave them out there for the birds ...'

She shrugs. Makes herself some breakfast at full speed, pots and pans rattling, spoons banging as she violently stirs the contents. I'm pleased to see nothing burns and nothing breaks. Then in a wink she vanishes. Calm descends on our living quarters.

Our son comes down. I watch him as he reads the A4 sign on the door. He studies it for a while and then says.

'Have the girls been?'

'Yes. But they've left your share.'

I am thinking that he is going to head back upstairs muttering that this is ridiculous and just for babies. I watch him from the corner of my eye. His muscles are showing under his teeshirt. I can see the man in him. His voice already is so like his dad's. Where is my little boy? As I watch him walking around the garden I can see the toddler he was, conscientiously picking the eggs and putting them in his basket marvelling at each one. Today this boy is a 1.87 meter tall muscly teenager boy yet he is still happy to walk around hunting for his chocolate eggs.

He comes back in. The French doors slam behind him.

'Is that all?' He says.

I ignore that. So does my husband. He is thrilled.

'See! I told you they would enjoy it. You can't have Easter without an egg hunt.'