Holidays are an odd thing, I find, living in another country. After spending years, following certain traditions and routines around Christmas and Easter, whether through food preparation, gifts, or entertaining friends or family, I find myself at a bit of a loss today on Easter Sunday. Molly is visiting for a week and she and Rick have ventured off to London to a couple of markets and a museum and I opted not to go. I thought they could use some quality father and daughter time since it has been almost 8 months since they have seen each other.
Chan is hanging out with his best friend, Sam, today. Sam’s cousin is having an egg hunt for the younger kids and the boys are going to “assist” with the event. Personally, I think it was simply a guise so that they could really romp around too. I think it doesn’t matter how old you get, there is something kinda magical about finding chocolate behind the cushions on the loveseat, on top of a picture frame, or tucked into some little crevice in the stairwell.
At our place in Canada, we had so many places in which to hide the eggs. In fact, weeks and even months later one of the kids would joyfully find a tin foiled egg or dusty jelly bean behind some sheet music on the piano, or next to a bottle of Three Habs on the infamous hot sauce shelf. My favourite thing to do for the kids was to leave an empty Easter basket outside their bedroom doors so that when they woke up on Sunday morning they would pick it up and follow the trail of treats to where their big gift would be waiting. Some new Disney movie, a Lego Transformers set, or perhaps a new spring jacket were my picks for the kids and, the solid Mr. Bunny and a Kinder surprise or two. It was always a challenge to get the kids to wait until after breakfast to start hunting for eggs. It is the one day that you would just have to say screw the rules about starting the day with a balanced meal and let them have some fun.
So before Molly arrived here on Good Friday, Rick told her that we would have an egg hunt in our backyard. Having not been here, she obviously didn’t know exactly how much smaller our home was compared to the farm in Douro so I am sure she thought it would be fun. But when she arrived and saw our postage stamp sized garden with little more than a few patio stones and a garden hose, we all laughed at how ridiculous the concept of trying to hide anything out there really was. I guess it’s the thought that counts.
Now our little English house is quiet and I am debating about whether I should take the time to hide a few eggs around the place. Sure I won’t have piano keys, family portraits, or staircases to use as hiding places but let’s face it; my life is dramatically different now than it was just one year ago.
I had no clue that come Easter 2010, I would be wandering around my two-bedroom terrace house in Dartford, Kent, putting mini cream eggs on our telly we dragged out of the rubbish, and the keyboard Rick found through an ad in the Kent Messenger, and on top of the oil paintings of Greece that I scored at my fav thrift shop.
Does it matter where they find them, even if they aren’t so obscure? Won’t the feeling of discovery still be the same? I have to think that this time it will mean more to them though not only because they won’t expect it, but because it represents something greater than Mr. Bunny or the next best Disney movie. I think what it really means is that no matter where we are in the world, we will always be a family to each other.
