Last year, my sister and her kids came to visit on Easter. I was super excited, because cousins spending Easter together is wholesome as fuck.

However, I was dealing with extreme nausea and vomiting, coupled with fairly debilitating lupus symptoms at the time, so I wasn’t able to provide the kind of exciting, activity-laden celebration I wanted. But I still wanted to do something special.

So, I had the brilliant idea to have the kids plant jellybeans all over the backyard the night before easter. After the kids went to bed, I (meaning the other non-sick adults in the house) planted lollipops in their place. So when the kids woke up, there was a forest of lollipops, which had magically grown from the jellybeans they planted.

Cute, right?

Nope. Nobody was impressed. The kids placidly gathered their lollipops, not giving two shits about the magic that produced them.

This is what happens when I try to be whimsical. It’s like at New Year’s when I went to the dollar store and got plastic caddies and made personalized treat trays for our movie time, using my family’s favorite treats. They looked at their treat trays quizzically.

“Mommy, why is the popcorn in this thing?”
“Honey, why did you put my drink in here?”
“Can we just take the stuff out?”
“Why did you do this?”


This year was different. This Easter, I did nothing. We went to a party in the park which was entirely planned by my friend. All I did was bake corn muffins. That’s it. My father in law provided a basket for my daughter for the Easter Bunny — I didn’t even do that.

And you know what? It was glorious. Having other people do the work is much better than doing the work for yourself. Much more fun. And frankly, I’ve never been skilled at creating holiday magic anyway.

It’s time for me to accept my lot in life. I’m not a party planner. I’m a guest. And that’s OK.