Look at them … at first glance they look pretty normal — even caring.
But put a golden egg in front of them and they become this crazed, seething hunter trampling on anyone and anything in their way, including their own kid.
I’ve seen parents get a little pushy, but crazed egg-hunter bitches? That’s a whole new level.
Easter egg hunts happening all weekend long and you’re bound to run into parents like these. Easter egg hunts are supposed to be family friendly. They’re supposed to give kids a chance to get their own eggs, that’s why they split the kids up by age. They should split the parents up.
It’s funny how everyone followed the rules at first. There’s a multitude of brightly colored eggs scattered all over the baseball field. Everyone is lined up in the outfield and along the fence. They tell you to stand back. Don’t start ’till you hear the whistle.
There’s no caution tape. No ropes. No red tape. Just you and the honor system. And everybody follows it. A kid walks out and the parent hauls him back in line and explains that it’s not time yet. Everyone was lining up — waiting for the countdown.
A marathon of parents rush the field along with their toddlers and three-year olds. Most follow the egg protocol, where they head to a patch of grass and collect five, maybe six eggs. Kids are happy, parents are happy.
But then there’s the crazed hunter who sees the golden egg, glistening in the sun. Is there something special to it? A dollar bill? A gift certificate? A Willy Wonka Golden Ticket? Yeah, maybe. I dont’ know I’ve never been the crazed parent to get one. But there must be something special because the guy with the microphone said they were special. Plus there were only five of them on the field.
It was these five special golden eggs that created the madness.
So after countdown I see him sprint by, dragging his poor kid past all these rainbow-colored eggs. She reaches for an orange egg during the race, but it’s out of her reach as her dad pulls her toward the golden egg. He picks up speed as he sees another crazed egg hunter sprinting toward the same egg. His daughter’s shoe falls off, but he doesn’t stop. She cries. He runs.
As he sprints to one of the five special eggs, he crushes a blue plastic egg that a kid with a dinosaur shirt was planning on putting in his basket. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t say he’s sorry. He keeps going. It’s a race to beat the other parent.
He finally sees it within his grasp. He bumps into another kid, and sidelines an adult. He notices the other crazed parent is close, but according to his estimate he’s closer. A kid with a baseball cap pops out of no where and it becomes a three-way race. I’m rooting for the kid, but as he stretches his hand out for that special egg the man busts out his Andre-the-Giant hands and grabs that golden egg in one swoop. The kid looks startled, as the man clutches onto the prized egg. The other crazed hunter is upset and continues her scramble.
There are no more eggs on the field. He’s got one. The one. Everybody stares in amazement. He shows the egg to his daughter. She’s angry because she wanted the orange egg. She gives him a dirty look and walks back to the outfield, looking for her shoe.
He calls her name and shows her the egg again. She rolls her eyes and turns around.
I look at my son. He peeks inside his red bucket and smiles. He’s got seven eggs, all different colors. He picked them himself.