Last night after our egg-dyeing shindig, as we were taking the dry eggs off the wire bunny-shaped egg rack to put them in Frig, the #1 son proclaimed, "I SO want to smash them with a bat."
No. He's not some psycho egg-beater unconsciously emitting a cry for help. It's a little childhood game his grandma came up with. For which I still have not forgiven her. #1 was only 4 the first time. His cousin was around 12. We had packed up our dyed eggs and taken them to my mom's house, because #1 wanted to show her. She oohed and aahed over them.
After dinner, Grandma told the grandkids, "Let's go outside and hide some eggs." They took the colored eggs to the front yard. I'm not sure how it all came about, but the next thing I knew, Cousin had my wooden baseball bat, a give-away from a Cardinals game during my childhood, machine-autographed by Phil Gagliano, I might add, and was using it to hit #1's colored eggs, tossed to him by Grandma! Am I the only one to feel the horror here? Oh, the humanity!
I could not stop the senseless carnage. There went my egg salad. And my Cardinals' memorabilia. And #1's innocence. For the next several years, my mom organized the same game of eggball. I held my tongue. But I refused to watch. The first year that The Pony was big enough to pulverize Easter's multicolored symbols, I had to let it out. My mom said she was only trying to have fun with the kids. They weren't hurting anything. And they enjoyed it so much! Yeah. Make me the Easter Grinch.
We don't mention it anymore. Unless one of the kids brings it up. And I certainly don't take our colored eggs there. If Grandma wants to beat the yolk out of two dozen eggs, she's going to have to dye them herself before the carnage ensues.