is that eventually someone is going to want to eat it.
You'd think after ten years of dying Easter eggs, this family would get that. And yet every time I go to the fridge to get an egg to eat, there are three little voices calling out: Don't get one of mine!
And when I point out that this is a statistical impossibility (after all, it wasn't like I was sitting around making pretty food... I was too busy trying to keep all that paint off the clothes, the counter, the floors, etc), they then all yell, "At least don't eat my special one!"
When I was a kid I got the bright idea of hollowing them out so you could keep them. I'd stick a pin in one end and create a small hole, then do the same with the other, and blow. And blow and blow until that fat, thick yellow yolk finally came blasting through. I remember my cheeks burning, my lips numb, and my head screaming with raging migraines.
My kids aren't quite old enough to do that themselves, and well - I'm just not that loving and nurturing I guess. And I like hard boiled eggs. It's about the only time of year we have them in the house.
Only a few more days, I tell them, picking off the ugly ones first. As of Saturday, even the best ones are going to have to go.
And the next art? It's going to be the kind we can hang on the refrigerator instead of having to keep it in it!