Acks

Last year we had a magical Easter celebration with Mary, Paul and Joy at Mary's brother's home in RB. They even hid multi-colored plastic eggs full of goodies all around their yard and provided baskets to enhance the adorability quotient in the subsequent photos. As I mentioned then, Jarrah was perplexed by the egg hunt and the concept of carrying the basket, since she was under the impression that "Ma!" and "Other Ma!" were there to do the heavy lifting. She was only 17 months old, after all.

This year, we were eager to continue the tradition, and happy to join the Rupperts again, this time at the official Encinitas egg hunt. Unfortunately, about 5,000 other people were also happy to join the Rupperts, which made for a slightly different experience.

There was the ritual circling of the parking lot, followed by the crush of bodies towards a fence and the sound of bullhorns emitting complex instructions about how to avoid a Who concert-like melee. Signs warned that only children were to touch the eggs, and that only 3-year-olds (whoops--we were breaking the rules) were eligible for this particular hunt. Jarrah was holding the basket from whence we'd dumped out our television remotes. She had been briefed on her objectives: find "acks," put them in basket.

First, we watched a group of people scatter the eggs in the grass from black plastic garbage bags. Then, some more bullhorn warnings. Many, many frantic cell phone exchanges between myself and Mary, since we couldn't locate each other. Finally, a rush towards a starting rope, where we got into position and were finally released. Yelling. Stomping. Crushed plastic in the grass. Jarrah and Joy staggered around like amnesia victims. Feeling the pressure, I hovered over an egg or two screaming "Look! An egg! GET IT IN YOUR BASKET! HURRY! SOMEONE ELSE IS GONNA TAKE IT!"

And, finally, we were alone, the madding hordes having been herded out the back fence by more people with bullhorns and big signs that said "KEEP MOVING." I peered in Jarrah's basket--four eggs. Some of the sprinters had looked suspiciously post-three, more like five or six or eighteen. I saw some baskets precariously heaped with eggs and triumphant parents snapping photos of their children displaying their vast booty like Henry VIII with a giant chicken leg. A bullhorn-holder warned us to move it along.

Outside the fence, some brave children climbed into the lap of a fuzzy white Easter Bunny to get their photo taken. She beckoned to Jarrah: nothin' doin'. The Easter Bunny kept telling the children gathered around her "No egg unless you're a good girl and get your picture taken." What bizzare criteria for goodness have we wrought?

We meandered towards some jump-jumps with staggering lines snaking away from them. The line for face-painting was even crazier. There was a brief debate about what to do now, and Paul bravely took Joy to one of the jump-jump lines but had to flee when a "scary clown" came by, which seemed like an excellent reason.

Just before we left the premises (and ended up eating a yummy breakfast at Coco's) David said to me, with the delicate hesitation borne of eight years with an unpredictable woman, "So...this might be something we want to skip next year?" I thought about being cruel and saying "No way--we're coming back EVERY year" with a straight face, but I started laughing instead.