Easter

I was prepared. My mom picked out the girls dresses and their matching shoes. I bought a new dress. I scoured online recipes to find Hub's families' traditional "Easter Pie". I spent the month picking up little jewels for the girl's baskets. I made deviled eggs. I made cupcakes with homemade strawberry buttercream frosting. We dug out the tripod from storage. I looked up the times for our Church's Easter Mass. I was prepared.

I awoke Easter morning. I set the girls baskets out on the kitchen table. I made my fruit salad and put the bacon on the cast-iron-skillet to fry. I made espresso.

Hubs came downstairs and the girls anxiously tore into their loot. We spent a few moments together before I went upstairs to shower and put on my "Easter best". The fussing of wee-one crept into my shower. It continued through my make-up routine. By the time I got downstairs she was in full meltdown. Hubs went upstairs to ready himself. I got girls dressed, one eagerly, one reluctantly. Hubs set up the tripod in the backyard. I was drenched in perspiration before we even walked out the back door. We took photos. Wee-one was not in the mood. The other was posing like something out of "Toddlers & Tiaras". I snapped at Hubs. We quickly gathered our things and rushed out the door.

Wee-one had to be physically restrained to be placed into her carseat. Protesting ensued. Louder taerful protest followed. The other one placed her hands over her ears and started to complain. I sighed heavily. We arrived at Church, looking like the perfect American family. We were hoping Church would provide us the peace we so needed that morning. We were wrong.

While walking hand-in-hand with her Daddy, wee-one fell into a small hole in the parking lot. She began screaming, again. Hubs picked her up and she was in full hysterics as we approached the colossal double doors. We walked right into the "crying room". Music was playing, but could be barely heard through the broken speakers. Wee-one seemed temporarily distracted from her upset by pulling out every item inside my purse and intentionally dropping it to the floor. She picked up a copy of the Church's "Breaking Bread" book and attempted with all her might to tear it apart, page by page. When calmly asked to stop her destruction, she fell to the floor, face down, in a full on, all out, nightmarish tantrum. We gathered her up and walked out the door. Back into the car we drove, heading back to the house without so much as a single "Peace be with you" muttered. I was completely and utterly unprepared for this.

We arrived back at ground-zero and attempted to give the girls some lunch. Wee-one was not having any of it. We loaded her up and brought her upstairs to lay her down for what was clearly a well needed rest (for us all). But, alas, rest would not come. At least not until she kicked, flailed, and screamed at the top of her tiny lungs for the better part of the next 45 minutes. Hubs and I cracked open a beer and collapsed onto the couch.

As we sipped, ok, chugged our cold beers, we talked about holidays. About the pressure we (especially Moms) put on ourselves and on our families trying to make these few days of the year particularly special. I do this and will continue to do this because it is important for me to create memories and family traditions that my girls will carry with them into their own families.

But, sometimes life happens. Life becomes the needle on our internal record-players and teaches us that no person, family, or holiday is the picturesque editorial out of a Martha Stewart magazine. People are messy. Kids emotions are messy. Messy and unpredictable. Sometimes you just have to know you did the best you could, let the chips fall where they may, pop open a cold beer, and be grateful for all the mess you have. And at the end of the day, you can still have a pretty picture or two to remind your children how much fun they had as children on Easter.