My Chick

It interests me that Easter dresses are always sleeveless. Always. Isn't it 60 degrees or below in most of the USA (or world) on Easter Sunday every single year? Why can't we get cute 3/4 sleeve dresses on our little girls? Would it be too much to ask? Or, perhaps, are the dress makers in cahoots with the white sweater makers and when you have sleeveless dresses, you must buy a new white sweater all in the name of Easter. Actually, that is a really good idea on their part. Nevermind.

We forgo-ed the customary white sweater with a hot pink one. Zoe was rocking her sweater, Ralph Lauren silk dress, and her too-small tights (seriously, tights do not go in the dryer... maybe one day I'll remember? Or is it that they are so small to begin with that I don't see them as they are in a pocket or sock and when they come out it's too late?) with the cutest pig tails ever. She was so precious. Zoe sat through the service like a professional church-goer.

Solemn? No. Serene? Not even close. Interested? Yes. Learning a little? Definitely.

The day before we went to a family Easter party at a local farm. They had hay rides and all things eggs -- hunts, decorating, painting, tosses, recipes, you name it, they had it to do/see/touch/taste/create. Zo really got interested in the chicks and repeatedly left the activities to pet the little fuzz balls.

"Awe, Mom! He is so so cute! Look at that little little tiny wing!" she would say in sweet excitement petting the tiny creatures.

In the Craft Loft (yes, an actual barn loft) she got to try her hand at dyeing a hard-boiled egg. This was a first. She created a nice grey egg from the plethora of colors she mixed and slopped on top of one another.  It was a masterpiece in deed. Settling her gooey creation into a "I Love Iowa Eggs" plastic bag, we stepped into the bright sunshine to find a patch of grass.

Xander busied himself with eating a nice blade of grass and the stench of the petting zoo wafted by in the slight spring (okay, late winter-ish) breeze.

Zo clutched her egg and rocked it back and forth. Mr. & I could hear a "Twinkle.." then "Rock a Bye..." then "ABCDEFG...." as she sang to her egg.

The egg was then set on a soft grassy spot and Zo laid on her stomach to get eye-level with it.

And she waited.

And waited.

"Baby, what are you looking at?" wondered Mr., as our two year old wasn't begging for cotton candy/a pony ride/or goat food, but laying in the grass staring at an egg.

Zo rolled her eyes.

"Why did you roll your eyes at me?" he asked as he rolled his eyes at me.

"I'M WAITING FOR IT TO HATCH!"

Oh.

Soon something else looked like more fun and she took off. I quickly de-shelled it (like a shrimp) and tossed it into the petting zoo. Those goats looked like they could use a little protein.

Out of sight, out of mind. It wasn't mentioned again all day, through the night, or even as we got ready for church.

"Open the eyes of my heart Lord, Open the Eyes of my heart. I want to see you..." we sang. A little hand started climbing up the bottom of my shirt, a sign she wanted my ear closer to her little rosebud lips.

"Did Jesus die on the cross?" Yes.

"Did Jesus come alive again?" Maybe. Still battling with that one.

"Did my egg die?" Yes.

"Your chick is in a better place, Zo." I replied, rubbing her sweet shoulder. Congratulating myself on how smart and perfect my baby is, she shattered the moment.

"Like Sea World?"