My wife Cynthia forwarded me two emails in quick succession. The first was from a friend, recruiting volunteers for a cleanup on the Potomac River. It was on a day when I would be out of town. Good luck with that, I thought.
The second email was from our next-door neighbors, saying they could not host their usual Easter egg hunt because their kitchen was being redone and they would be traveling just prior to Easter Sunday and, oh, one more thing, they were very sad about not hosting.
Cynthia had added at the top of the message, “We should do this. Don’t you think?” I hoped she was referring to the river cleanup. Fighting pollution in the dirty Potomac seemed to me, in relative terms, much less of a commitment than hosting the Easter egg hunt. For one thing, no one would expect the river to end up clean.
But Cynthia did think we should host the Easter egg hunt. The kids, too, were unanimous that we offer up our house and yard to the elfin little ones on our block for the annual chocolate and candy free-for-all. The egg hunt, I concede, is an adorable, brightly colored display of childish fumbling and sugar consumption. It’s also a social event. While children search the lawn, parents huddle to the side, drinking coffee and eating quiche and French toast and muffins and fruit salad and little desserts, and every year talking about the same thing: their spring-break vacations, a subject I do not look forward to because, as it happens, we never go away for spring break.
As parents, Cynthia and I have achieved a pretty good balance of yes and no. By which I mean a tiny bit of yes and a whole lot of no, as in this recurring conversation: Can we get a dog? the kids ask. No, your mother’s allergic. A cat? Nope, she’s allergic to them too. A goldfish? No. She’s allergic to goldfish? Yes, she’s allergic to everything, so no—no goldfish.
That’s one yes and four nos with a bonus no for emphasis, perfect.
Having thought it was a good idea to have three kids, I am finally learning to draw the line. And Cynthia is with me except when it comes to cute, photogenic stuff, the kind of activities that make certain unbearable people say, “Let’s make memories.” You know what I mean. Arts and crafts. Cake decoration. Letters to Santa.
So when the egg hunt comes up, I start by mentioning all the cooking involved, but Cynthia explains it’s a potluck, with everyone bringing a dish. It has always been this way, apparently, I just didn’t notice. Then what about the yard? I ask. We’d have to mow and rake and clean the whole place up. No problem, the kids assure me. They will do that.
Hearing my kids say they will mow the lawn has an effect on my brain not unlike that of a second martini. My powers of skepticism are instantly gone. Come Saturday, of course, I am out there alone, mowing the grass, raking the winter detritus, and sprucing up the yard. This takes several hours but is briefly interrupted when a car pulls up next door with my returning neighbors.
I look over at John, the husband and father. As he gets out of the car, carrying some luggage, he does not look my way, as if he’s just too distracted by all the bag-carrying he is doing. How odd, I think, why would he avoid my gaze?
The kids come through on one part of the preparations, which is to pack candy into all the plastic egg shells that have accumulated over the years from the egg hunt, but they’re not happy about it. In fact, they’re saying that I had been right all along, that hosting this event is a lot of work. Cynthia and I are up until midnight, cleaning the house, mixing a large quiche, and tending to a number of other details.
At eight a.m., people start to show up, some in their Easter best, some barely out of their pajamas. Children scatter across our lawn, and the party is a success. Our next-door neighbors come by. I can see how glad John is not to be in my shoes. I even tease him about it, confident that, whatever else happens, this is my last time hosting the Easter egg hunt. Afterwards, I take a much-needed nap.
Later in the day, Cynthia and I get a sinking feeling as bags of empty plastic egg shells begin to appear on our stoop. We’re like, Wait, what’s going on here? Even our next-door neighbors return theirs, attaching a card that says, “Awesome job on the Easter Egg Hunt. Here are some eggs for next year!”
