The fourth kid had hurried out out of the house and I’d taken a few photos of them in their non-Easter finery (the oldest boys looked like Christmas–one in a red polo and one in a forest-green button down shirt; the middle kid wore the short sleeved button-down shirt that has a red pen mark stain near a button and the girl wore the same exact white dress from last Easter). Half of them had wet hair still.
We got into the van. I had the key in the ignition and my sunglasses on and realized I just could not wear the dress I had on.
I think my kids were utterly shocked, but I said, “I have to change clothes!” and then I ran into the house, peeled off my pantyhose and shed my dress and pulled on a pair of white pants and a flowery blouse and hot pink flip-flops. I would not be surprised if I were voted out of the Pastor’s Wives Association.*
My last-minute costume-change is why we were one minute late for church on this beautiful Easter morning.
We’ve reached the era in our family where we do not dye Easter eggs. I do not hide plastic eggs in the back yard. We’ve never had a visit from the Easter bunny–ever–but I do occasionally manage to provide Easter baskets–and this year was a total triumph in that department since I snatched up two baskets from Costco the second I saw them. (One year I meant to do that closer to Easter but then they were all gone.) (Only two baskets, though, because my older kids are almost 22 and “too old” for baskets, though they got a chocolate bunny each which I completely expect to find under a bed or tucked on a shelf somewhere in a few months, at which point I will throw it away and wonder at kids who don’t eat chocolate Easter bunnies because some things never change.)
After church, I prepared lunch and we all sat at the table and tried to see each other over the too-tall flowers.
And then, glory be, a lazy afternoon scrolling through Facebook and Instagram and then napping and reading.
*Not a real thing. As far as I know.