My daughter experienced her first Easter egg hunt yesterday. While she slept in the early hours of Sunday morning, I came downstairs and hid the ten candy-filled eggs.
My initial hiding places were brilliant.
Inside a coffee mug that was positioned on the top rack of the dishwasher.
Tucked behind two cookbooks on the bookshelf.
Inside the crock pot.
On the top rack of the oven.
Stuffed into one of my shoes.
These hiding places were outstanding, I thought. It might take her hours to find the eggs.
Then I remembered the book that we read to Clara about Easter:
Laura Numeroff’s Happy Easter Mouse!
In the book, Bunny hides the eggs in considerably more conspicuous spots than me.
On top of tables. On a sofa cushion. Behind a chair leg.
It occurred to me that perhaps my hiding spots were too difficult for a two-year old.
Then it occurred to me that we forbid Clara from opening the over or the dishwasher, so those hiding spots were probably bad on a number of levels.
Then I realized that she can’t even reach the crock pot.
She’s never even hunted for Easter eggs before.
Then I felt stupid.
So I collected all the eggs and re-positioned them in fairly obvious locations:
On her chair. On a stool. On her toy box. On the chimney of her dollhouse.
And when she came downstairs and began finding eggs, Elysha turned to me and said, “Your hiding spots are perfect, honey.”
No thanks to me.