For all of my talk about colostomy bags, sweaty pits, and baskets of bacon, you’d think I was raised by Rosanne Barr. Surprisingly, though, my mom is a sweet, loving little lady. She is by far the most wholesome person that I’ve ever met; she grew up in Iowa, the daughter of a janitor, and majored in Home Economics in college. My mom never swears (she uses the word ‘Frick’), bakes banana bread on a daily basis, and loves Sally Field. This is to say, she is not the target audience of my Spazz Dad blog. I often reference erections, poop, and debauchery in my stories. My mom. No. Likey. She has spent a lifetime trying to keep me from saying the very things that I’m now getting paid to write. Although she supports everything I do, she holds her breath every time she sees me, nervous as to what I might say or tell her what I’m writing about.

On Easter Sunday, my mom naturally assumed that I’d show up for brunch shirtless or at the very least with a mustache. But to her surprise, I arrived cleaned up and my hair cut short and tight just how she liked it. And with a shirt on. Her house was immaculate as usual. My parents still live in the house I grew up in and the Dutch colonial is basically a showroom for her artistry. In the living room, there were lilac twigs just about to blossom that were adorned with Easter themed ornaments. There were fresh cut flowers everywhere, heart shaped quiches, and endless trays of handmade desserts. She had planted violas in eggs shells! In essence, she made Martha Stewart look like a hack. 

The huge buffet and decorations were only just the beginning. For the six kids in attendance, my mom had planted Easter eggs all over her wonderful cottage garden. Each kid was designated a specific colored Easter egg to look for and the color was coordinated with their Easter basket. The eggs were hidden in garden statues, bird houses, and potted containers. The kids raced through the yard collecting their specially colored eggs. Inside the eggs, the kids found tiny gifts that were specifically picked for them. In my son’s case, the eggs were filled with super hero and Star Wars toys and knick-knacks. My mom fluttered around her garden, the queen of her own private Easter Oasis.

Later in the afternoon, my wife and I had another Easter egg hunt for our son at our house. Murphy found all the eggs and eagerly opened them up. He was grossly disappointed.

“These are just filled with candy,” he complained. Murphy stood there for a few minutes completely befuddled as to why his parents were so lame. Then he said, “I already got everything I wanted at Grandma Linda’s house.”

Of course you did. Just like me when I was growing up. Thanks mom.