Hippity Hop.

I don't know why I don't love Easter. Maybe it's the baskets full of candy nestled in shreds of uber-synthetic green plastic, or the competition of hunting for those little plastic eggs with a penny inside. Maybe it's the faces on those creepy, giant easter bunnies at the mall. I don't know—it's just not my thing. 

For a few years, I could get by with not doing much besides putting out our centerpiece, which again celebrates the holiday with tongue firmly planted in cheek. Our vintage, glitter-laden bunny wears false eyelashes and that's about the end of it. 

Now let's be clear—none of my disdain is related to the purpose behind the holiday. I observe and respect the religious side of things...its just that waxy, molded chocolate and white ruffled socks are not my gig.

So alas, I planned nothing this year besides the unveiling of their baskets. I figured this was no big deal and even told Ella that they would get easter baskets, but we didn't have plans for an Easter egg hunt this year. She seemed unaffected.

Then Derek and I got home from a Reds game with friends that Saturday night. We walked into the kitchen to find this note on the counter:

In the spirit of my failure as a Mom, I darted into her room and immediately looked behind her door to find this basket. She had no access to money or a car or a store, so she made a basket full of handmade paper "eggs" with notes and treats inside...one for everyone in the family to open on Easter Morning. I went to bed and cried. What's wrong with me? We didn't even dye eggs! Or hide them! My 6 year old showed me how it's done.

 

Sunday morning, all four of us slept in our bed, then enjoyed a big breakfast. We had a great family discussion about Christ, the meaning of the Resurrection, and all we've been granted.

The kiddos opened their baskets from "The Bunny" and baskets from their grandparents.

 

We let Ella go last, her toothless grin showcasing her excitement as she handed out her beautiful paper eggs. I opened mine carefully, read her sweet note, and savored the laffy taffy slowly, with gratitude...and pride.

Build, Destroy. Build, Destroy.

I'm not sure I can cite the last time that Derek and I looked each other in the eye. We swirl around the house in a frenetic waltz that involves one of us constantly monitoring Carson to make him stop:

• spritzing Nellie's back fur with carpet cleaner
• painting the kitchen chairs with a melting popsicle
• swinging from our chandelier (yes, still)
• sitting on the kitchen counter, faucet on and spray hose in hand, waiting for one of us to cross through the room

...the list goes on. When we get really mad, his lip quivers so innocently, as if he truly doesn't understand why these experiments and laughter are worthy of everyone getting so loud and twisty.

Maybe there's a lesson here.

The toilet paper gig is one of his more benign routines. So today instead of getting frustrated, I took these pics and then joined in for round two to help him build (and destroy) the next magic tower.

Friendship, Lesson 1

My sweet babes, over the next 20 years you will be bullied. You will get hurt. Your hearts will be broken. You'll cry at the dance. A friend will turn on you. A clique of kids will reject you.

And through it all, we will remind you how amazing you are and how much we love you, but none of our words will matter to your sweet teenage soul.

What will matter, however, is the collection of people you choose to become your lifelong friends. These are people that know you through life phases and changes, celebrations and failures, heartbreaks and first jobs. And second jobs. And marriages. Divorces. Babies. Whatever. They risk your friendship to confront you about what's right for you. They're the ones who tell you about the food in your teeth and listen to your shamelessly dramatic rants about whatever was important to you that day. And they love you anyway.

I met some of those friends at Miami, and over 15 years later we are still gathering for reunions. This one was perfect - no husbands or kids, and only scattered talk of them. Maybe we're all at the age and phase of life now where the transitions are over and it's about us again. It's more likely that we have all been driven insane by them, and being in Oxford meant getting back to who we were before we started taking care of everyone else.

It was the perfect girls weekend - honest, easy and natural. That's the essence of friendships that stand the test of distance and time. If you ever need to present yourself as something you're not, keep searching.

My babies, prom dates will come and go, but hold on tight to your family and your lifelong friends. They are your history, and in some way they shaped you—they are a part of you. And you are brilliant. Choose well!