There is a quiet sadistic maternal pleasure in watching my girls hunt for their Easter eggs. The morning always begins with a rapid inhalation of sugar. This can be in the form of chocolate or something really sour. Then the hunt is on.
Baby Chicken relishes finding the eggs not hers and then counting down to how many her sisters have left to find and how many she knows where they are at. Oldest Chicken goofs off and puts on a production when she plucks an egg not hers. And Middle Chicken wants absolutely NO HELP in finding her oval treasures. She doesn't care if something starts to stink on Memorial Day. It's a point of pride, methinks. Or obstinance. *grins*
And apparently, as I type this, OC has one egg left to find. And BC has already informed me that it's beneath the cushion that I'm sitting on. LMAO
How much fun is that???
And for other Easter treasures...our calico cat, Christmas, had Easter babies. *smile* Five tiny furballs. Two black. One orange. One tabby. One calico. It's raining outside, and we have a shelter on the porch complete with several towels and an umbrella to shelter the new arrivals.
There's meat in the crock pot. With potatoes added when it's almost done. OC lifted the lid this morning and smiled. "That's heaven."
1 month ago