During Easter service yesterday morning I started to have a mild panic attack. Well, I also was having fake contractions (not that they feel fake: they just do no good); but as I told my brother who was sitting with me while Hubby was herding two years olds into some semblance of organized activity (a.k.a. our monthly servitude in the two’s Sunday School class), “Don’t worry. Do you think Hubby would really just leave me with you if these contractions meant anything?”

But no: I was not panicking over the spastic belly. I looked over at the family sitting next to us, noticing their daughter in a pretty floral dress, remembering how I loved Easter as a kid because it meant I got a pretty new dress and new shoes and maybe a hat (especially if we were doing Easter down South, a serious cultural experience) and an Easter basket and maybe an Easter egg hunt and . . . wait: basket . . . egg hunt . . . .

I did none of those things for JJ. And other parents have. Good parents. Attentive parents. Parents who will have a scrapbook to show their child all the wonderful memories/photo opportunities their child participated in.

JJ got to wear a new shirt. True, it’s mostly because the weather was warm enough for him to finally wear it. And I put new shoes on him, mostly cause his other blue shoes looked so dirty. Thank goodness he got a cards and goodies from the grandparents lest it be a complete Easter famine in our household.

But I did one thing right: I invited the most bestest, favoritist, beloved person in JJ’s life up for the weekend – Uncle Bubba. And he came! And stayed overnight! JJ was in heaven: they read stories and played with balls and ran into walls and jumped on pillows and ate Wendy’s and played video games and did everything that entertained JJ’s fancy because Uncle Bubba is the ultimate in his world – right up there with Bobber (Bob the Builder) and Thoms (Thomas the Tank Engine) and pocots (apricots).

And I did one other thing right: I made an Easter meal, and it was good. True, I didn’t really *make* the meal, but I did think ahead enough to thaw out one of my dinner coop meals the night before. The bag was labeled “Party Chicken” and simply required dumping the contents into a casserole dish and baking for a while. I can do that. I made a pot of rice – my first: yes, that sounds sad, but my diet generally is rice-less – I leave it to the professionals. Throw in a spinach salad, some whole white wheat bread toasted with butter and garlic salt and parm, and my version of strawberry lemonade (sf strawberry kool-aid and sierra mist free), and it was a real meal! Paula Deen totally would’ve approved: each chicken piece was wrapped in bacon and marinating in something white, creamy, and probably not Sonoma Diet approved. My Mama brought me strawberries on Friday which I cut up, splendaed and lemon-juiced, and served with fresh baked snickerdoodles and sf cool whip. Prep: minimal. Clean-up: easy. My brother and I commented on how’s it weird to eat a *real* meal during a holiday together without the ‘rents around: we felt so old. And full. And content.

I thought about taking an afternoon walk, but the weather decided to be non-committal and I didn’t want to bear the brunt of a hormonal rainshower. So I did the next best thing: watch my brother and Hubby box on the Wii and then make each of our Miis (plus some family members. . . and Jean-Luc Picard). Just like the disciples did after Jesus rose again.

Reflecting on the day, I don’t know that I would do much differently. It’s so natural to compare myself to other moms, feeling like I come up short because I don’t always do the traditional activities: how neglected will my child feel because he didn’t run around looking for plastic eggs filled with candy that will hop him up to energy levels previously unknown in this dimension causing me to yell at him because he won’t calm down and he’s getting his new clothes all dirty and why am I slaving over this stove all by myself to make a meal that will be consumed in ten minutes so the boys can get back to playing video games which is where they’d rather be than with a grumpy, hormonal woman scrubbing pots?

We had a good day: I wasn’t tired or crabby from having done to much: we worshiped: we enjoyed each others’ company: we spent time together. And that seemed to be more honest in “doing Easter” than anything else.

The only sad part: when JJ woke up this morning, he crawled out of bed, went to the bathroom, and then came running out looking all around yelling “Bubba?!! Bubba!??” He didn’t remember that the Beloved One left yesterday. But the spirit of Bubba remained: JJ managed to get yet another bruise on his face as he ran into a wall in the nursery during MOPS – ah, the cost of being a Performance Artist.

JJ Jawings