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As a parent, I’ve had my share of moments that brought tears to my own children’s eyes. There was the time I attempted to make a rocket cake for my son’s birthday, only for it to resemble a giant hygiene product. Then there was my daughter’s party where she suddenly found the crowd overwhelming, and I (perhaps unkindly) refused to send half the kids home. And I can’t forget the Thanksgiving when I told my son he couldn’t join us at dinner due to his bout of illness. A few parenting missteps are to be expected, right? But nothing could prepare me for the first Easter I celebrated as a mother with a child who was old enough to join in — the day I inadvertently made a multitude of other people’s children cry.
Let me paint the picture. My first year with my son was challenging. He was a particularly fussy baby, I struggled with postpartum depression, and my husband was often busy with work. After a tough start, when my son reached eighteen months, he finally became curious about other kids and less prone to constant crying. In a moment of spring enthusiasm, I decided to join a mom group. The first major event scheduled was an Easter egg hunt in a nearby park. “This sounds fun!” I thought. “I can handle this!” My motivation was so strong that I even volunteered to bring eggs and arrive early to help hide them.
Admittedly, I was a little anxious about mingling with new people while managing my active toddler, but with some strategic planning, I got my son to nap early, avoided my usual lateness, and even managed to hide the eggs before others arrived. Victory!
When the kids were finally set loose, they charged through the grass, searching for their colorful treasures. I kept pace with my son, who was thriving in the excitement. Laughter and shrieks filled the air. Some kids were crying, but that was typical for group events, right? Usually, my child would be among them — but not today! His face lit up with joy!
As we passed a sobbing child, I noticed she was clutching one of the eggs I’d hidden. Poor thing, maybe yellow wasn’t her color? At least my son was still enjoying himself! He’d just discovered an egg, but when it broke open, M&Ms spilled out. He gobbled them up before I could react, and his joy skyrocketed, while mine began to dwindle.
A slight unease crept in, but there was no turning back. My son was now on a mission to gather as many eggs as possible. I guided him toward some I remembered hiding. However, when he discovered an egg without candy inside, he angrily tossed it aside. My heart sank.
Against my better judgment, we finished the hunt, and once the last egg was found, we returned to the picnic area. As the kids examined their loot, I eyed my car across the lot, wondering if I could sneak away unnoticed.
But it was too late. The children began to open their eggs, and while some were fortunate to have collected goodies from the other moms — those who clearly knew what they were doing — others, like the toddlers who had found my eggs, were met with disappointment and began to wail.
I turned my gaze to a nearby tree, trying to avoid looking at the crying children, desperately wishing I could hide from the situation. Should I say something? Apologize?
The murmurs among the mothers grew louder until one finally asked, “Why are so many of these eggs empty?”
Silence fell over the group. I glanced around, finally admitting, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t realize you had to fill them.”
Their expressions were a mix of confusion and annoyance. I could see the unspoken question: who was I and why did I come here to ruin their egg hunt?
I considered claiming ignorance about Easter traditions since my husband was Jewish. We had only just celebrated Passover. But in that moment of discomfort, I couldn’t bring myself to lie. The truth was, I had celebrated Easter every year growing up, but my parents were health-conscious and didn’t believe in candy.
I had assumed these new plastic eggs were a modern twist on the boiled ones I used to hunt, easier and less likely to spoil. It had honestly never crossed my mind that I was supposed to fill them with treats.
As the last remnants of my optimism faded, my son began to cry too. He was lucky enough to have found some of the other mothers’ eggs, but for reasons beyond comprehension, he erupted into tears. I seized him as if he were my lifeline.
“I should get him home; he missed his nap,” I declared, no longer the supermom I had envisioned. But at least every mom understands the struggle of a missed nap, and I received a few sympathetic “awws.” The other mothers were kind, and not one of them shouted, “Go back to your rock!” even though I suspected that was on their minds.
With as much cheer as I could muster, I bid them farewell and left.
Wow, I thought as I took deep breaths and navigated familiar roads that blurred before my eyes. Just when you think you’re getting the hang of this parenting gig, life reminds you that you still have a lot to learn. It would be a while before I ventured out again, and I promised myself never to volunteer for a holiday event again. Those tear-streaked faces would remain etched in my memory, but I hoped those sweet toddlers soon forgot about the empty eggs.
Of course, my son hadn’t actually missed his nap, but he still fell asleep in the car ride home, his face covered in chocolate, a mix of joy, anger, and sugar on his cheeks. Bedtime would surely be a disaster.
As I drove into our driveway, my own cheeks were flushed with a blend of humiliation, dashed hopes, and a bit of chocolate. I pondered whether I had time to call my mom before my son woke up.
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In summary, my first Easter as a mom was a humbling experience filled with laughter, disappointment, and a lesson learned. As I navigated the trials of parenthood, I was reminded that sometimes, even the best intentions can lead to unexpected outcomes.