We win Easter.

We did our egg hunt today because there are big storms rolling through tonight and tomorrow, and also because I wanted to beat you all to it. I wanted to WIN Easter.


Here's the play-by-play action:
egg dunkin' in jammies.



gratuitous baby shot.



father and son Easter glee.


chris often points out the fact that if we dyed ezra's hair dark, we'd have the exact same hair. How much of a creepy mini-me would he look like if we did that?! hahahahaaaa.


the boy cleans up nice.



swoooooon. my husband in vintage hats makes me all melty inside.



we were waiting for our neighbor friend to arrive, so we kept telling ezra not to peek and find all the eggs before she even had a chance. have you ever tried to tell a four-year-old to ignore all the easter eggs? here's a tip for you should you ever find yourself in such a position: go out and buy yourself the thickest blindfold on the market.


THEN BUY YOURSELF TWO MORE.


Ahhhh. Here she is! Totally worth the wait, yes?



the hunt is on.



this is his "or somefing?" face. As in...
"Maybe I could eat this candy or somefing, mamma?"



finally, scouring the plunder...



...and taking no prisoners.


Easter was one of those holidays that got totally lame between the ages of about 16 through 21. Because... like... hunting for eggs is totally for BABIES. And between those ages, I was too cool to go snuffing all through the bushes and grass for a jelly bean or two, you know? Pshaw. As if.

But, then I realized that all you have to do to enjoy these silly holiday traditions again is to get yourself around some kids. They don't have to be your kids, per say. They can be cousins or nephews or neighbor babies or your friend's little urchins.

Then, crouch down to these kid's levels, make eye contact, and ask them to tell you about the Holiday.

You will suddenly love these silly holiday traditions again, I swear. Probably more than you ever have before.

Like, how ezra told me the other day that jesus got died and then put in the big rock by all the bad womens.

"Bad womens?", I asked him incredulously.

"Yeah. The bad, bad womens."

Thank God for Chris. If he hadn't been listening to this little convo, I may have marched into his Sunday school class and cried sexism.

"Oh, buddy... do you mean the Romans?", he asked gently.

"Yeah! I said that! The WOmans!"

Pure gold, that.