Easter Eggception

Saturday night, we got home late and I was trying to hustle Laurèn to bed, when I heard Yohannes call out.

“Mom, can you come say goodnight to me?”

“Mmmm….hmmmm” I responded, walking into his room. “Hey buddy.”

“Hey,” he murmured, sleep still claiming him.

I ruffled his hair, “Have a good sleep.”

I turned to leave.

“Wait….Mom?” he called.

“What?” I said.

“Tomorrow is Easter, right?”

“Right.”

This time when I left, he remained silent. Instead of heading to bed, I tracked Laurèn down in the kitten room; she was having a final cuddle with our six-week-old fosters. It was almost eleven o’clock. Ward had already fallen into bed, and was softly snoring. I gently nudged Laurèn towards bed. I walked down the hallway thinking about Easter. With sadness, I realized that it is no longer a religious celebration for our family. Sigh! What happened? Oh yeah—a church that we felt pushed out of, or simply no longer “fit” inside of, and then a life so full of challenge and chaos that the moments to decompress, re-group and be still are few and far between.

Easter in our house is about family time, and the epic Easter egg hunt. Traditionally, my witty, sleuthing, husband has orchestrated clever clues and rhyming riddles that had the kids running, pell-mell, from one riddle to the next, collecting chocolate. I knew that was what Yohannes was referring to. I also knew that the Easter Bunny (EB) wasn’t coming to our house this year. Well, not the EB that our kids had gotten used to. I had unilaterally decided that the EB had earned a break. Moreover, our kids no longer believed in the “actual” Easter Bunny; it was time to transition to something different. We were done. So, this year, I hatched a different plan—a simple, meaningful, gift.

On Easter morning, Yohannes saw and ignored the small box sitting outside his room. He walked by it three times without bending to look at it. On his third pass, he came to me, “Mom, do you think there will be an Easter egg hunt this year?”  “No, I don’t think so,” I replied.  “Oh.” His eyes fell and he sauntered to his room, dragging his feet across the floor as if they were too heavy to lift. He walked past the trinket that I had lovingly assembled and closed his door.

Tears sprang into my eyes. Transitions are hard. I doubted my decision. It wasn’t about the Easter Bunny; it was about creating magic in my kid’s lives. I had let them down.

 ...

Yohannes’ disappointment is palpable. Ward is sick and has gone back to bed. I have filled a mug with coffee, and am sitting in the quiet room ready to write. Yohannes, who had been lying woefully on the couch while I cleaned the kitchen and made coffee, has followed me in. His agitation floats in like an outhouse stench. My body stiffens.

“Can Fraser come over?” he asks.

“Not right now,” I answer.

“Later?”

“I don’t know—but, I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“Because your Dad is sick and we need a quiet day.”

“Can Jenna and Uncle Douglas come over?”

“No. They are busy today.”

“What are they doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why can’t they come over?”

“Because they already have plans today.”

“How do you know!? You just said you don’t know what they are doing!”
“Hmmm… I don’t know what they are doing—that is true. I do know that they aren't coming over here.”

“Why not?”

“Yohannes!”

“Can Jenna come over then?”

“No, Jenna can’t come over.”

“You’re so mean!”

Pause.            Breathe.

“Yohannes, I am gong to sit quietly now and write, you need to go and find something to do.”

“Can I watch TV?”

“Not right now.”

“Why not?”

“I am enjoying the quiet, and there are many other things you can do.”

“Like what?”

“You can eat breakfast. You can go and read. You can draw a picture. You can walk the dog. You can go back to bed.”

“Can I take this blanket up to my room?”

“No, you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am using it right now.”

“But I WANT TO HAVE IT!”

“I know you do.”

“You’re so mean!”

Finally, Yohannes goes upstairs. I turn to my writing.

Three minutes later, he is back.

“Can I call a friend today?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” I answer, without looking up.
“What can I do?”

“I have already given you lots of suggestions.”

“Ammffttgg…..”

Pause.            Breathe.

Yohannes sits in the chair beside me, fidgeting and swiveling it around, knocking the table between us, and sending a spray of coffee all over the place.

“Yohannes!” I say, jaw clenched, “I am really in need of some quiet time right now. So, I would like you to find another place to hang out.”

“I’ll be quiet.” He kicks back in the recliner. “I want to sit here.”

Pause.             Breathe.

“Yohannes, I am curious about why you are not able to do what I have asked. Is there something that you need from me right now?”

He sits, staring at his feet and clutching the red heart-shaped pillow to his chest.

I continue, “Okay, if there isn’t anything that you need—I want you to think about doing what I asked.”

“I don’t want to.”  He shifts the recliner back to a sitting position.

“I know.”  I keep writing, knowing that if I say anything or demand that he go—he will react and the situation will escalate.

He sits for another minute.

“Can I call a friend right now?”

“No.”

“WHY NOT?”

Pause.             Breathe.

“Yohannes, have you eaten breakfast?”

His answer is an indecipherable grunt.

“I would suggest that you have some breakfast.”

He sits still for another minute or two. I keep writing and coaching myself internally not to engage with him. He gets up, goes to the kitchen and paces. He kicks a cat toy around. I hear the cupboard door open and close. I hear the fridge open and close. And then he is back in the quiet room again.

“Can I do some stuff—and then watch TV?” he asks.

“You can definitely do stuff—but the TV is not going on right now.”

“Why not?”

Pause.             Breathe.

He goes back to kicking the cat toy around. He gives it one good kick and then walks by me, heading for the stairs.

“Yohannes,” I gently say.

“WHAT?”

“Breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were hungry.”

“Well—I’m not!”

“Your body hasn’t had any fuel all night. You need to eat within a half hour of getting up.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know.”

I study him as he stands at the bottom of the stairs, facing away from me. His body moves to some internal rhythm. I can tell he doesn’t want to listen, and I can tell he knows he needs to listen. He simultaneously needs to connect with and oppose me. It is a phenomenon to behold. He lacks the ability to inhibit his thoughts, emotions and behaviors. And, if I do not give him what he wants, or we do not agree, his attachment system gets activated. It is very difficult to manage this unique need.

He walks to the front door, opens it and walks outside into the still-frozen spring morning—barefoot. About twenty seconds later, he comes back in, closing the door a little harder than necessary. He stomps into the house, past me, and into the kitchen. He opens and closes the fridge. He opens and closes the cupboards. I can hear the repetitive crinkle of something that I can’t distinguish, but there are no other breakfast-producing sounds. He is fully stuck.

I am conflicted. I want to write and ignore him, but I know that he is not going to be able to get himself out of this emotional spiral without my help. Moreover, there will be no peace for me while he is in this space. I sigh, and put down my pen. I pick up my coffee and head into the kitchen. I start pulling things out of the fridge, talking out loud to myself, “Well, I think I will make an omelet…let’s see…cheese, eggs, onions, peppers, tomato…Mmmm…that should be good. Yohannes…do you want an omelet?” Nothing.

While I am cooking, Laurèn wakes up; she goes outside to check the weather. She comes back into the kitchen and says, “Mom, what are all those plastic eggs doing in the yard? Are they for us?” Distracted and confused, I say, “What? Plastic eggs?” “Come,” she says, and runs to the front door. I follow, and Yohannes gets up and joins us.

There is a meandering trail of bright plastic eggs. I am completely stumped.

“Are they for us?” Laurèn asks.

“I…I guess so,” I say, and then mutter, “I wonder where they came from?”

“Maw-om,” Laurèn says, giving me a we-weren’t-born-yesterday look.

“Seriously…I don’t know where these came from.”

“Dad?” both kids chime in.

“Nope. Dad is sick in bed.”

I head back inside and the kids gather up the eggs and bring them in. For a moment they are occupied, mesmerized—unpacking and counting the chocolate treasures from each egg. I marvel at the timely delivery. Who could have brought them? The hair on my arms stands up, and I shudder. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that neither Ward nor I placed these eggs in our yard. It seems that the world still contains a bit of magic.