The Easter Rebellion

The kids make their feelings known. They are NOT too old for an Easter egg hunt, apparently.

Remember that year when you wrapped huge long pieces of string all over the house and we had to follow it and it led to our eggs? Can you do that again?

Remember that year when you wrote all those clues and we had like a treasure hunt to find our eggs? Can we do that again?

“Can’t I just buy Easter eggs from the shops and give them to you like any other normal person?”

NO!

They tell me I did an indoor egg hunt last year. I have no memory of it, having been caught up in the ongoing court case with Simon at the time, but I’m glad to hear I was still capable of making an effort. A small bell starts to ring somewhere in the dim recesses of my mind as they go on to remind me that one of the eggs was hidden in a mug in the kitchen and it took ages to find… ah, yes. It did happen, after all. I remind Lily that when she came home that long ago Easter to find string wound everywhere, she burst into tears, threw a massive tantrum, and refused to play. The joy of Aspergers; it’s only taken about six years for her to come to terms with that idea. I also remind them that it took them about three hours to solve my evidently more cryptic than intended clues in the year of the treasure hunt, and that this year I don’t have enough brain left over to attempt it.

This year Ivy can’t have dairy, so I had to resort to getting dark chocolate eggs, and a few small packets of Haribos. The rain stayed away long enough for me to quickly hide everything in the garden. Ivy bounced about like a toddler and demanded a proper basket to carry her stash in, then they both shot off outside like fireworks. Lily, as usual, rocketing past all of the eggs and sweets in a bid to be fastest, while Ivy gathered up packet after packet into her basket and examined places that I’d never thought of hiding anything in. I had to point out that it was not very likely that I’d risk life and limb climbing through the large patch of rosebush trimmings and brambles, but Ivy was determined to search there. We marvelled at how Lily had managed to run straight past the packet of Haribos dangling from the washing line without hitting herself in the fac, while Ivy unpegged it and dropped it into her basket. The last couple of eggs required a few hints, then they were back inside, giggling and ripping into their chocolate while I retreated to the kitchen sink.

I’d intended to leave the kids to their egg hunt while I cracked on with the chores, but instead found myself standing watching them, laughing. There hasn’t been enough laughter recently, and so a few moments in the sunshine watching while the kids ran about and everyone was happy and joking… it was well worth the extra bit of effort, and the slight delay to the washing up. Easter egg hunts weren’t that common when I was growing up. My Mum occasionally apologises for what must have been an incredibly boring childhood when she sees me frantically trying to make events like this happen – yet things like egg hunts just weren’t part of the culture at the time. At times I question whether I’ve made a rod for my own back when I’m making Halloween costumes or planning treasure hunts, but when everyone is laughing and enjoying themselves, it’s all worthwhile.

This is recovery too. Taking time out to celebrate, to create new, positive memories together. Picking and choosing so as not to overburden myself (no string, no treasure hunt) while still making enough effort to delight the kids. In many ways, it’s an act of defiance, a chocolate-based rebellion; we will be happy, no matter what.

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