I’m spending today an only child which is bizarre after almost 17 years of fighting for parental attention with two other snotty, gross whelps. However, the whelps are no longer snotty or gross, we’re old and accomplished with the average age of all three of us being 18. This comes as quite a shock as it feels like it was only last week that my sister and I had to hide the non-existence of Santa Clause from our baby brother.
Now the little tyrant is 16 and on a weird manly farm trip with his friends with the 21 year old working at a clinic for (I mean this whole-heartedly as a term of endearment) vet dorks over the long weekend.
So little Harr, almost 19 with nothing better to do, as I am unemployed, incredibly unattached and perhaps in need of a new hobby, came home to celebrate this sacred day of eating so much sugar you die by typing out a blog post in the recesses of my moved-out room.
Sounds like a jolly Easter indeed.
Every year my mom sets up an Easter egg hunt, sometimes with clues, sometimes using the “hot or cold” method of scouring the house but it’s a family tradition that is carried out without fail every single year.
As long as the Pope remains Catholic and John McEnroe continues to pout, so will The Bentley 4 have an Easter egg hunt. Be it Pirate themed, when everyone has to wear bandannas and wave our ship’s flag, or colour coded: the hunt must go on.
Except I wasn’t exactly expecting one this year. Perhaps it’s because when you move out you get awfully old incredibly quickly and the concept of fun from your childhood escapes you a little bit, maybe it’s due to the fact that I don’t have the rest of my clan with me this weekend and it feels like we’ve all grown out of “the magic of Easter”.
Imagine my surprise when my Mom bursts into my room, kicks me unceremoniously out of bed and tells me to wait for her in the kitchen. I’m not old enough to disobey the women whose very existence means my existence so I obliged.
I get presented with a clue. This clue led to another clue and so on with the hiding places being the objects of inside jokes and me, too old to live at home but never too old to act silly, squealing and giggling while I skip around the house picking up clues and trying to find my stash of fatty goods. Ironically, though I’m pretty sure Mom did it on purpose as she appreciates my love for irony, the chocolate was in the medicine cabinet.
I’ve been given the task of setting up a hunt for the Little Tyrant when he gets home, I plan on insulting him on atleast every single clue because that’s how the little wiener and I operate.
This story was supposed to have a moral…give me a minute to think one up.
You’re never too old to do the shit you did as a kid, no matter whether or not you have to buy your own toothpaste.
And if you’re going to relive your childhood, relive it with a squeal, a giggle and a skip.