Tragic Sandwich

What are your Easter traditions? Growing up, we would hunt eggs and go to Mass. I don’t remember a specific Easter dinner, but I do somehow associate ham with the holiday. So at some point we must have had ham. Presumably at more than one point.

As it turns out, I did not get up earlier than everyone to hide eggs. Baguette woke up squirmy and snuggly, and began her usual morning ritual of bringing things into our bedroom to hand to us. Normally, these tend to be highly portable items, like Fisher Price giraffes and horses, or books. Yesterday morning, though, I could hear her laughing as she came back toward us. And when she rounded the corner, I could see why: she was bringing us a broom. And she was right, when you’re expecting a Fisher Price giraffe, a broom is kind of hilarious.

So we all got up, and I threw on some clothes so that I could run out front and hide eggs without scandalizing the neighbors. Then we got her into a springtime dress and shoes, because after all, it’s really about the photo ops.

Baguette had very little interest in the “hidden” eggs–we had to point them out to her and urge her to collect them. And then she had even less interest in the basket; she point-blank refused to put the eggs into it. What she did want to do was throw them over the fence onto the sidewalk. (Note to self: teach Baguette that eggs are not basketballs.)

Then she went around to our next-door neighbor’s house and climbed over the fence back into our yard. Dress, shoes, and all.

The rest of the day was spent on a snowshoeing outing. Mr. Sandwich had built Baguette a sled, and we figured that–given the dry, warm winter we’ve had–this was probably our last weekend to find snow and test it out. And we did find a little, resulting in successful sled testing.

And then we got home and passed out on the sofa bed. Which we still need to replace.

So which parts of this are traditional for us? No idea. The eggs, most likely, but there’s no predicting the future of April snowshoeing.