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A Very Autistic Easter
http://jumpontherollercoaster.blogspot.com/2010/04/youve-got-to-lov...
Being a lapsed Catholic, and having lapsed well before parenthood, we're struggling a bit with the exact sequence of Easter weekend. Especially as it relates to the chocolate and baked treats.
So yesterday afternoon, Billy and I braved the shops to pick up Easter supplies. I say 'braved the shops' like it was premeditated. It wasn't. I didn't even think of the fact that the shoppers of Sydney would be in panic mode before they faced the bizarre phenomenon of a day where you can't buy alcohol.
We wondered why there were few parking spaces available in our usually deserted shopping centre. And when we finally found one, and headed upstairs... we found out why. Mostly, the elbows poked in my sides and in Billy's eyes gave us the message.
Ladies, in panic mode. The odd older man pushing his trolley full of minute steaks and frozen vegies through the throng. And a legion of children peeling the foil off easter eggs and licking the chocolate before replacing the eggs on shelves. Drool and all.
Not. Pretty. Not a bit.
We managed to find a ridiculous number of well sealed Easter Eggs (I went as far back in the display as I could, but now I'm thinking that might have been playing right into the foil peeler gangs' hands..) Billyneeded a lot of eggs. Or so he told me. So, in Billy speak, we 'collected' Easter Eggs, and fish (there's that crazy old catholic thing again), hot cross buns (we've been eating them for months, I didn't know they were strictly Good Friday food... the ones we ate in January would have been mighty stale by now) and a pile of random must have Billy supplies (picky eater, anyone?).
From the moment we arrived home, it was time for an Easter Egg hunt. I managed to hold him off until bed time, when he announced we would hunt for eggs tomorrow. I agreed we could hunt for little tiny eggs. I have no idea what saint's memory I smote with that decision. But I'm sure some guy is shuffling in his sandals.
In the morning, we got through breakfast with only eight or nine... hundred reminders about the impending egg hunt. Then, after breakfast came the announcement. We need an Easter Basket... and it needs to go 'around, and up and across and down'. Right, then.
I need to go back a little in history, to sometime around the catholic lapsing. It was the 80s, and along with Wham and U2, I was finding out all about feminism. It made a lot more sense to me than the random believing of men in floaty dresses. So, God out and girl power in.
The knock on effect, apart from a partially shaved, gravity defying haircut, was a complete dismissal of all school subjects and life habits that could be construed as 'girly skills'. Motor coordination was never a strong point (still isn't unfortunately) and so I gleefully freed myself from the demands of typing, home economics, art, craft... pretty much anything useful. I lost myself in the very practical world of ancient history, french and drama. What was I thinking?
Well, flash forward to this morning, and I was asking myself the same question. I needed to Macgyver up a cute looking Easter Basket that went 'around, and up and across and down', and I needed to do it quickly.
I'll save you reading too many more words, and let you know that the basket I made out of a snipped up coat hanger (goes 'up, across and down') and a dodgy wicker cracker basket (goes 'around') served the purpose only because Billy was jumping up and down so fast he could barely see how crap it was. I'd post a picture, but the basket fell apart after Billy put one miniscule chocolate egg in it.
He hunted, he found, and while he did try all the eggs (Creme eggs and Caramello eggs suck, white chocolate is not chocolate, and Crunchie eggs are for Mummy...) he only fully ate the ones with the familiar Cadbury purple label.
Tomorrow, we have a giant chocolate Bunny to eat. Though Billy uses the word 'we' very loosely.
And on Sunday, he has lined up not one, but two hollow egg hunts. One at home, and one at a friend's house.
It's the religious event that keeps on giving. Which makes me feel very guilty for the lapse, and therefore very conscious of the catholicism.
I don't mean to offend the religious, by the way. I've got a feeling they would be much better at providing a manageable context for all this chocolate hunting. And for that, among many things, I've gotta give them props.
I hope everyone is rested and calm and less caffeinated than my son.
So yesterday afternoon, Billy and I braved the shops to pick up Easter supplies. I say 'braved the shops' like it was premeditated. It wasn't. I didn't even think of the fact that the shoppers of Sydney would be in panic mode before they faced the bizarre phenomenon of a day where you can't buy alcohol.
We wondered why there were few parking spaces available in our usually deserted shopping centre. And when we finally found one, and headed upstairs... we found out why. Mostly, the elbows poked in my sides and in Billy's eyes gave us the message.
Ladies, in panic mode. The odd older man pushing his trolley full of minute steaks and frozen vegies through the throng. And a legion of children peeling the foil off easter eggs and licking the chocolate before replacing the eggs on shelves. Drool and all.
Not. Pretty. Not a bit.
We managed to find a ridiculous number of well sealed Easter Eggs (I went as far back in the display as I could, but now I'm thinking that might have been playing right into the foil peeler gangs' hands..) Billyneeded a lot of eggs. Or so he told me. So, in Billy speak, we 'collected' Easter Eggs, and fish (there's that crazy old catholic thing again), hot cross buns (we've been eating them for months, I didn't know they were strictly Good Friday food... the ones we ate in January would have been mighty stale by now) and a pile of random must have Billy supplies (picky eater, anyone?).
From the moment we arrived home, it was time for an Easter Egg hunt. I managed to hold him off until bed time, when he announced we would hunt for eggs tomorrow. I agreed we could hunt for little tiny eggs. I have no idea what saint's memory I smote with that decision. But I'm sure some guy is shuffling in his sandals.
In the morning, we got through breakfast with only eight or nine... hundred reminders about the impending egg hunt. Then, after breakfast came the announcement. We need an Easter Basket... and it needs to go 'around, and up and across and down'. Right, then.
I need to go back a little in history, to sometime around the catholic lapsing. It was the 80s, and along with Wham and U2, I was finding out all about feminism. It made a lot more sense to me than the random believing of men in floaty dresses. So, God out and girl power in.
The knock on effect, apart from a partially shaved, gravity defying haircut, was a complete dismissal of all school subjects and life habits that could be construed as 'girly skills'. Motor coordination was never a strong point (still isn't unfortunately) and so I gleefully freed myself from the demands of typing, home economics, art, craft... pretty much anything useful. I lost myself in the very practical world of ancient history, french and drama. What was I thinking?
Well, flash forward to this morning, and I was asking myself the same question. I needed to Macgyver up a cute looking Easter Basket that went 'around, and up and across and down', and I needed to do it quickly.
I'll save you reading too many more words, and let you know that the basket I made out of a snipped up coat hanger (goes 'up, across and down') and a dodgy wicker cracker basket (goes 'around') served the purpose only because Billy was jumping up and down so fast he could barely see how crap it was. I'd post a picture, but the basket fell apart after Billy put one miniscule chocolate egg in it.
He hunted, he found, and while he did try all the eggs (Creme eggs and Caramello eggs suck, white chocolate is not chocolate, and Crunchie eggs are for Mummy...) he only fully ate the ones with the familiar Cadbury purple label.
Tomorrow, we have a giant chocolate Bunny to eat. Though Billy uses the word 'we' very loosely.
And on Sunday, he has lined up not one, but two hollow egg hunts. One at home, and one at a friend's house.
It's the religious event that keeps on giving. Which makes me feel very guilty for the lapse, and therefore very conscious of the catholicism.
I don't mean to offend the religious, by the way. I've got a feeling they would be much better at providing a manageable context for all this chocolate hunting. And for that, among many things, I've gotta give them props.
I hope everyone is rested and calm and less caffeinated than my son.
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© 2012 Created by Christina Shaver.
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