I don't know why, but I love Easter. I love the bunnies. I love piecing together the perfect basket. I even love Peeps. When I was in graduate school and was so broke that I routinely had, like, only $12 to my name, I still managed to pull together a little basket for Cowboy when we were dating.
This year was Missy's first basket. Since her new skill is removing the entire contents of anything resembling a container, she was in heaven. And, of course, for all the sweet, carefully procured items bestowed on her by the Easter Bunny, she liked the 65-cent plastic eggs the best.
My delight in assembling my daughter's first basket was only slightly marred by my inability to eat heaps of chocolate eggs and bunnies this year.
Despite nearing the ripe ol' age of one, Missy still suffers from reflux. Her meds help but if I even look at a piece of chocolate, a cup of coffee or a bottle of Pinot, she projectile vomits.
Once I discovered that these items set her off, I stopped having them for months. Then, one day I discovered a teeny, tiny stash of chocolate chips in the cupboard.
Throw them away. They make her reflux act up, said the good momma angel.
Oh, c'mon, she's almost a year old for chrissakes. Maybe it no longer affects her, said the bad momma devil.
Naturally, I went with the bad momma devil. I mean, there was chocolate involved.
And poor Missy vomited the night away. That'll learn me.
So I'm off all the good stuff. Until I wean her.
Then I'm gonna bake the biggest, baddest chocolate cake and eat the shit out of it.