Hippity...Hoppity...Trippity...Black Eye.

Hippity...Hoppity...Trippity...Black Eye.

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Growing up every Easter seemed pretty picture perfect. My mom and I would dye eggs, bake a bunny cake and the Easter Bunny would ‘surprise’ me with a big basket of goodies.

There were only two Easters that were somewhat less than picture perfect.

My small town would hold an annual egg hunt at the local state park. Kids from all over the area would line up behind a line, get set and go when they fired the fake gun. Since my mom liked to drag me to every event as a kid, I also participated in this activity.

One year, however, I must have been too slow for the boy behind me. As I was running as swiftly as a 6-year-old girl could in her white Keds, I tripped.

Tripping is nothing new in my life. Watch me walk on a daily basis and you can make a game out of it. It happens a lot. Even flat footed. I’ve accepted it and I hope you will, too.

When I tripped, I fell down. That’s how that usually works. That little boy behind me wasn’t concerned with what had happened he was on a mission. He was going to get every egg he could. What did the little boy do? 

He stepped on my face. This caused a black eye.

The only black eye I have ever had in my life came from when a little boy stepped on my face to find Easter eggs.

A couple of years later, I believe I was 10-11 when we had come home from church one Easter Sunday and were outside with neighbors as we all took family pictures. My childhood dog, Lady, was outside for the family picture when she spotted a rabbit.

Lady was a dachshund. A weiner dog. One who believed that she needed to live up to her name by killing any animal she saw. Birds. Mice. And on Easter, rabbits.

Before we could turn around, Lady had run behind the tree and killed the poor rabbit on Easter.

While living in Atlanta, I never made it home for an Easter weekend. The trip was long and I always tried to make it home a month later for Mother’s Day. Last year, however, I was moved back to Arkansas for Easter and staying at my parents’ house. As an adult I no longer have a curfew, but there is a respect period that I am supposed to come home because my mother likes to say, “Maegan, until you have a daughter you will never understand what it’s like to stay awake all night while you are out.”

Last year I didn’t get home until pretty late, which apparently means that I no longer get an Easter basket anymore.

I’m going home to my parents’ house this weekend and I’m almost relieved that I don’t have to worry about black eyes or killed Easter bunnies. I’m still hoping for an Easter basket though…
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