Hippity Hoppity

As Easter quickly approaches, I am reminded of a very special day my family and friends spent at a local Egg Hunt last year. I meant to write about it at the time, but much like anyone who's experienced a traumatic event, I needed time to heal.

I'm ready to tell my story now.

It all started off innocently enough. "Come Join a Community Easter Egg Hunt!" the website read. "Fun for All Ages!" it said. My friends and I thought this would be a lovely way to spend a Saturday with our families, so we went.

There were approximately 50,000 people at this egg hunt. I guess that is our community; I don't know. But there were a lot of people there. And as for the "hunt" aspect, they had three squares of grass taped off with 300 eggs piled on each of them.

Can you find the eggs?

It didn't take a mathematician to see this would be a problem:

3 small squares of grass x 300 eggs  =    ANGRY EASTER MOB

                                            50,000 people

We managed to forget about the impending bloodbath for a while and enjoy ourselves, eating hot dogs and mingling in the spring weather. However, as the "hunt" approached, people started gathering around the taped-off squares with fire in their eyes. I found a spot outside the square marked "0-2 Year Olds" with my then-one-year-old son, ready to go.

And then Pastor Steve of the local Church got on the mic. This was it.

Wait, no, first he said a quick prayer -- fair enough.

But then it was time to go.

Oops, not yet. He wanted to know if anyone lost a cell phone.

Okay let's do this; the kids were starting to lose it.

Then he wanted to remind us about a raffle winner. Where was Betty Sherman? Had anyone seen Betty?

This guy would not get off the mic! Clearly Pastor Steve was not used to having such a captive audience. Meanwhile we were all jam-packed around these little squares, waiting. I saw one kid make a break for the eggs before being caught and pulled back, blowing his chance altogether. Another child burst into tears. One other barfed out of pure anticipation.

FINALLY the Pastor Steve said 'Go!' and we stepped into the arena. The only way to make this Easter Egg Hunt more like American Gladiators would be to have Blaze shooting tennis balls at us from a padded platform.

I held my child's small hand, trying to guide hime through the chaos, but every time he stooped to pick up an egg, a 40-year-old Latina woman picked it up first. I swear this Latina woman was following my one-year-old around. And she was aggressive.

Typically my Midwestern-Catholic upbringing prevents me from telling strangers how annoyed I am with them to their face, but eventually I did let out a passive-aggressive "REALLY?" to this woman. Could she not see the adorable blonde toddler gently attempting to pick up the eggs? Where was her 0-2 year old, anyway? Is she picking up eggs for herself??? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON AT THIS EASTER EGG HUNT?

It was all over in less than a minute. We got three eggs. I stumbled off the battle field with my son holding onto my leg, eyes wide with what he'd seen. We went to find my husband so that he could take my three-year-old through the same terrifying experience in the next taped-off square.

That's when I noticed that the 3-5 Year Old area was also empty. Their group had been released only moments after our group, and now the field was in a post-hunt state, with children laying on the ground holding onto their legs crying, others wandering around in a daze, having been separated from their parents in the melee. A small fire burned in one corner.

When I found my son, he was not happy. He hadn't been able to participate in the hunt because we had the only basket with us. I tried to tell him that he was better off without the Lord of the Flies experience, but he would not have it. He would not have any of it.

So, in a moment I am not totally proud of, I took the three eggs we had fought so hard for and threw them on the ground. I handed my older son the basket and told him in a not-very-Easterlike voice to pick them up. And he did it; he picked each one up and stopped crying. (The Latina woman tried to get there, but she was too slow.)

And guess what? Each egg was filled with one teeny-tiny, off-brand, rock-hard tootsie roll. Exactly the kind little kids can't eat.

And then it was all over. Parents dragged their children back to their cars in bewildered silence. My friends and I looked at each other, but there were no words to capture what we had all been through that day. The only one who had retained the power of speech was -- you guessed it -- Pastor Steve. He was back on the mic in no time. Had anyone seen Betty Sherman?



Happy Easter, All!