*A portrait of my child, once a week, every week, in 2015*
How Mama imagined Easter egg dyeing would go {i.e. Fiction}:
I ask, "Matteo, would you like to dye some Easter eggs?" to which you enthusiastically reply: "That sounds fun!" I put a pot of boiling water on the stove, and you gently hand me eggs as I put them in their water bath. When the eggs are hard boiled, we put them aside to dry and you leave them there untouched while we focus on making the dye. I use glass jars because they are pretty and you are very respectful of Mama's pretty dishes. To make the dye, you carefully drop one tablet into some water and vinegar and squeal in delight as it fizzes away. You are patient as the tablet dissolves, happy to sit still and wonder at the process. When the dye is finally ready, you slowly lower an egg into one color at a time, letting them sit for a few minutes to get the richest color possible. When the eggs come out of the dye, you help me position them in the carton so that they aren't touching the other eggs to avoid color contamination. We let them dry while eating a healthy snack, knowing that patience is the key to good Easter eggs. When they're dry, we decorate them with stickers and then put them away in the fridge, happy to wait until Easter morning to "collect" them for your basket, which you will do, eagerly hunting for each perfect specimen until your basket is full. Then you will pose for a photo, holding your basket up and smiling sweetly for the camera. "Thanks, Mama!" you say, beaming at me with love and gratitude for introducing you to the magical tradition of dyeing Easter eggs together.
How Easter egg dyeing really went {i.e. Reality}:
I ask, "Matteo, would you like to dye some Easter eggs?" to which you enthusiastically reply: "That sounds fun!" I put a pot of boiling water on the stove, and you try to throw eggs into the water bath, hoping they will crack. One drops on the floor. I attempt to clean it up, while you run into the living room with the entire carton of eggs. I manage to wrestle it away from you unscathed. We have eleven eggs left, which I put into the boiling water. When the eggs are hard boiled, I attempt to put them aside to dry while you grab at them, burning your finger and bursting into tears. I offer you a treat and you immediately recover, so now we can focus on making the dye. I use glass jars because I'm an idiot. You immediately knock one over, and it's a miracle that it doesn't break. To make the dye, you chuck two tablets into some water and vinegar and squeal in delight as it fizzes away. You are not at all patient as the tablet dissolves, grabbing constantly at the cups, which I have to move out of your arm's reach. When the dye is finally ready, you eagerly plop an egg into the cup, splashing dye everywhere. I immediately attempt to clean it up with a paper towel, but, man that stuff is potent! My table is now spotted with color permanently. You don't want to wait for rich color, preferring to dunk the eggs in and out of multiple jars simultaneously, cramming them on top of one another in the tiny jars. When the eggs come out of the dye, you help me position them in the carton, making sure that they rub against each other as much as possible, creating maximum contamination of color. We let them dry while eating jelly beans, knowing that sugar is the key to good Easter eggs. When they're dry, you don't want to decorate them with stickers, so I put them away in the fridge, where you continually try to pull them out, running around with them yelling excitedly as the sugar really begins to kick in. On Easter morning, you put one or two in your basket, not overly concerned with the issue of cracking. You quickly realize the little trail of eggs is leading somewhere, so you give up on collecting them and run ahead into the kitchen where a chocolate bunny and many other marvelous things are waiting for you. "Look, Mama, it's a Ea-ster bas-ket!" you say, beaming at me with love and gratitude for this magical tradition of baskets filled with toys and candy. It is all perfect.
I ask, "Matteo, would you like to dye some Easter eggs?" to which you enthusiastically reply: "That sounds fun!" I put a pot of boiling water on the stove, and you try to throw eggs into the water bath, hoping they will crack. One drops on the floor. I attempt to clean it up, while you run into the living room with the entire carton of eggs. I manage to wrestle it away from you unscathed. We have eleven eggs left, which I put into the boiling water. When the eggs are hard boiled, I attempt to put them aside to dry while you grab at them, burning your finger and bursting into tears. I offer you a treat and you immediately recover, so now we can focus on making the dye. I use glass jars because I'm an idiot. You immediately knock one over, and it's a miracle that it doesn't break. To make the dye, you chuck two tablets into some water and vinegar and squeal in delight as it fizzes away. You are not at all patient as the tablet dissolves, grabbing constantly at the cups, which I have to move out of your arm's reach. When the dye is finally ready, you eagerly plop an egg into the cup, splashing dye everywhere. I immediately attempt to clean it up with a paper towel, but, man that stuff is potent! My table is now spotted with color permanently. You don't want to wait for rich color, preferring to dunk the eggs in and out of multiple jars simultaneously, cramming them on top of one another in the tiny jars. When the eggs come out of the dye, you help me position them in the carton, making sure that they rub against each other as much as possible, creating maximum contamination of color. We let them dry while eating jelly beans, knowing that sugar is the key to good Easter eggs. When they're dry, you don't want to decorate them with stickers, so I put them away in the fridge, where you continually try to pull them out, running around with them yelling excitedly as the sugar really begins to kick in. On Easter morning, you put one or two in your basket, not overly concerned with the issue of cracking. You quickly realize the little trail of eggs is leading somewhere, so you give up on collecting them and run ahead into the kitchen where a chocolate bunny and many other marvelous things are waiting for you. "Look, Mama, it's a Ea-ster bas-ket!" you say, beaming at me with love and gratitude for this magical tradition of baskets filled with toys and candy. It is all perfect.
No comments:
Post a Comment