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Weekly Photo Challenge: Curves

18 Jun


Real Women Have Curves -- The Factory Scene.

Real Women Have Curves — The Factory Scene


“Pretty dresses aren’t just for skinny girls.”

“This is who we are mama … REAL women.”

Real Women Have Curves.



Checking Your Crazy at the Door Makes Legoland Better

27 Mar

The hope. The anticipation. The excitement. It all started with a jar and ended with a smile and a couple of do-it-yourself souvenirs.

It was a marathon of kid excitement that involved a lot of walking, waiting, and sunscreen. But luckily my new meditation challenges have instilled a little more patience in me, so I’m less likely to be annoyed among the hundreds of wild preschoolers and Nickelodeon watching kids that flock to this kid Mecca. That’s right … The Guat is a proud parent survivor of LEGOLAND.

Normally we plan to attend the park on a weekday when the place is a little less crowded and the lines are little shorter. But since we were in San Diego for my friend’s wedding that weekend, where the death of my feet began because someone invented high heels and I was stupid enough to wear them, we decided to venture off to LEGOLAND the day after the wedding. We were all about doubling up on adventures, because the drive is always jam-packed with traffic and stupid drivers. And don’t even get me started on expensive gas prices. So with all this to consider, we brought the kids to the wedding, with my cousin — the babysitter — to watch them in the hotel room, between her massive texting and Facebook  status notifications. And while the happy couple was off to Maui for their honeymoon The Guats and company were off to LEGOLAND hoping to survive the weekend crowds. Yeah that’s right this time I had some support on this parenting adventure as my good friend Gloria and her family joined us.

But in truth, even with the comadre support I was still a little stressed out, because like any crazy mom I wanted to get there as soon as the doors opened. Seeing how our hotel was five minutes away from the park I was hoping to take advantage of the proximity, but plans always go awry. Stuff like eating a well-balanced breakfast to start off the day slows you down. But I remembered my go-with-the-flow meditation mantra and it proved to totally help hide my crazy.

And trust me when you’re surrounded by that many kids, that many rides and games, and that much potential for fun, you gotta be able to check your crazy mom schedule at the door, which I know is hard for moms because we all know that sticking to the schedule makes everything easier on you later as the afternoon and night progress. For every action there is an equal an opposite reaction. Newton. Genius … total genius.

This is why the schedule exists, but at LEGOLAND you learn that there are no schedules. It’s a go with the flow environment and in truth I’m usually that kind of chick, but when it comes to the kids I get a little crazy, which is why I probably have more gray hair now. You can’t really go with the flow with kids every day, all hell will break loose. But I’m happy to say that on Sunday, I checked my crazy at the door, and the LEGOLAND experience was a better one because of it.


This is his jar that starts off the LEGOLAND adventure every year.

This is his jar that starts off the LEGOLAND adventure every year.


I wasn't about to sit there and roll up all that change.

I wasn’t about to sit there and roll up all that change.


CoinStar … my savior. It counted …

5  Dollar Coins.

1 Half Dollar.

479 Quarters.

304 Dimes.

178 Nickels.

686 Pennies.

Totaling $171.41.

Admiring the scene and enjoying he moment as the parents getting it together and loading the stroller.

Admiring the scene and enjoying the moment as the parents get it together and load the stroller.


The friendly locals.

The friendly locals.


One of his favorite attractions.

One of his favorite attractions.


While her brother was getting his Junior Volvo driving license, she was busy checking out the stationary cars.

While her brother was getting his Junior Volvo driving license, she was busy checking out the stationary cars.


After driving school we decided to check out their new Pirate water attraction where we proceeded to get soaked.

After driving school we decided to check out their new Pirate water attraction where we proceeded to get soaked.


 Then we headed off to The Land of Adventure where they rode on all the rides at  least three times each. This one was our  favorite -- the giant slide.

Then we headed off to The Land of Adventure where they rode on all the rides at least three times each.


This one was our favorite -- the giant slide.

This one was our favorite — the giant slide.


After all the walking we ended up in the gift shop to buy firefighter Legos. But the best prizes were the two Angry Birds he won at the throwthe

After all the walking we ended up in the gift shop to buy firefighter Legos. But the best prizes were the two Angry Birds my son won at the throw-baseballs-and-knock-down-the-clowns-with-the-crazy-red-hair game. There was a lot of woo-hooing.


The Initiation of the Little Guat

13 Jul

I didn’t get there last time and believe me, it wasn’t because I didn’t try. We were making all kinds of traffic infractions, but I just didn’t make it. The process happened so fast so I missed the window of opportunity.

Even though people tell you, you forget the pain, they lie. Because you recognize it when it hits your abdomen. Then comes your back. Your aching back. It’s so excruciating that profanity constantly fills the room. You try not to, but it just comes out. Even in a Catholic Hospital.

Granted everyone’s experience is quite different, but everyone feels pain, even a little. If they say they don’t, that’s probably because the drugs are working.

These pains caused me such agony that I was calling on all Gods and Powers that be to make sure I had made it in time — made it to the window of opportunity. The Epidural Opportunity.

Now I’m not a wuss, and my pain threshold is pretty high, but there was no need to test my limits. Really there wasn’t. I had gone through that entire process before and let’s just say that I’m not a fan pain. Just because I can take it, doesn’t mean I should do it again.

And yes … yes this time, the window of opportunity was still there.

But all that pain, agony, swearing, and needles shoved into my veins brought me the joys of motherhood once again. A year ago today my daughter was born, and we celebrated her initiation into The Guat Family with a little cake, a little bouncer, and a few games. Her big party, along with my son’s is on Sunday, but the memory was created today.

Trying to play some games

One year of limited sleep.

One year of 2 a.m. feedings.

One year of 6 a.m. wake up calls.

One year of washing 20 Doctor Brown baby bottle parts a day.

One year of dirty Huggies diapers.

One year of random screaming.

One year of purchasing multiple pacifiers.

One year of people trying to give me pink things even though they know I hate pink.

One year of baby-proofing stuff that is never really baby proof.

One year of vaccinations and the crying that goes with it.

One year of crying because she’s sleepy.

One year of crying because she’s hungry.

One year of crying because she’s teething.

One year of crying for no reason.

One year of losing my mind.

One year of giggles.

One year of enthusiastic screaming when I enter the room.

One year of baby dancing when she hears music.

One year of watching a brother love his sister.

One year of smiles.

One year of puppy-dog eyes.

One year of ten tiny toes and ten tiny fingers.

One year of another little Guat hanging around.

One year today.

The Ice Sculpture, Without The Melting Part

12 May


When you think of Mother’s Day, you don’t think of stress and anxiety, well at least you’re not supposed to have those feelings.

 The concepts of closeness and unity should surround you as you feast at an awesome brunch that features mimosas, the omelette guy, and ice sculptures. You see smiling mothers and daughters in matching flower dresses and white hats hugging each other and hanging out by the fruit. Families shower mom with gifts at the table, and mom genuinely enjoys the effort.

This does not happen in my household.

I am consumed with anxiety on Mother’s Day. I don’t know if you’re aware, but the relationship with my mother is not exactly a Hallmark-American Greetings type of relationship. It’s different. Most chicks I know willingly hang out with their mothers and love every minute of it. They go on shopping sprees buying hers and hers matching outfits, or inclusive vacations where they clink their glasses together in a toast, or to the movies where they share each other’s popcorn.

We do not have this kind of relationship. We have stress and sassy Spanish words.

I have the kind of relationship where I’m stressed out about buying a gift because nothing I’ve ever gotten her was received with a smile, except that one time when I got Juan Gabriel tickets. But that dude doesn’t perform in the states every year. There is no it’s-the-thought-that-counts sentiment here. Instead I get the look.  You know, the I-can’t-believe-this-is-my-gift look. So after stressing out trying to please her and being consumed with anxiety every year I made a change. I switched over to gift cards, but even then some of the stores did not share her interests. So now it’s just cash or a Visa gift card.

At first glance it may seem impersonal, but when I tried getting personal, it did not work out. Cash seems to be the norm now and I haven’t gotten any complaints. No radiating smiles, but no looks of disappointment either. Some where in the middle I guess. But the anxiety doesn’t go away as I must spend the entire day trying to do nice things for her, which she may or may not enjoy.

But what about me? What about The Guat?


I’m not celebrated much. The veteran Guats usually get top billing on this holiday: My mom, aunts, cousins, and sister. I’m in my mid thirties with two kids, but I’m still the “youngest” of The Guat clan. So the mom crown is worn by others. But I’m still celebrated by my kids. My son shares cards made of unevenly cut construction paper, crayons, and handprints. The baby just decides not to spit up on me. 

But just when I thought the only recognition of motherhood would be courtesy of my kids, I received this awesome handmade card from a friend in the mail. Actual mail, not email. Regular envelope stuff that needs a stamp to get to you.

She took pictures from a recent pinata party of my smiling kids: my son mastering the art of hula hoops and the baby checking out her brother, all under the California sun. A real Martha Stewart effort. I loved it. So I thank my friend, who’s genuinely kind and awesome herself, for this cool Mother’s Day recognition. This was the Hallmark moment of the day —  the ice sculpture without the melting part.

My Three-Year Old’s Definition of Respect and Golf School

3 May

You’re talking and you wonder do they get it? They hear me, but are they listening? That happens often in my family.

But then I think about my son and smile. Sometimes he gets it, he hears me and listens …

My son continues his preschool sabbatical and is currently enjoying the teachings of Coach Jeff at golf school. Last week’s word of the day was sportsmanship. He seemed to learn that one quickly as he gave Coach Jeff a high-five and said: “Good game, Coach Jeff.”

This week’s word of the day was respect. He got the ten minute speech at the beginning of class. Coach Jeff  defined the word and explained that you should treat others as you would like to be treated.

Then my son whispers to me: “Mom, what’s treated?”

“It’s your behavior with other people. How you act. Your attitude. Remember good attitude. Good behavior to other people and people will have good behavior to you. Be nice to other people and they will be nice to you. Listen to other people and they will listen to you. Good attitude to Coach Jeff and your teammates, and they will show you good attitude.”

“Oh. Yes. Good attitude. Good behavior. Listen. I treat people, and they will treat me. I behave good, they behave good to me too. Respect.”

“Yes. Always show respect.” 

He smiled and we were off to the driving range. Each kid went to their stall and began swinging away.  They were reminded how to properly hold the club and how to follow through on their swing. My son improved his grip  … well at least for a second, and then he went back to a hockey-style swing, and then back to his golf grip again. It’s a learning process and he enjoys class. He’s smacking them pretty good and I was pretty proud of him.

Then after he finished half the bucket of balls he took a quick two-minute-Goldfish-crackers-and-Gatorade break. As he stood there checking out his classmates swing away. He noticed a couple of boys weren’t really into the driving range thing. They are off jumping like frogs, checking out the grass, or rolling around in their stalls. 

Then one of the kids who was hanging out in the grassy knoll, pretending he was a butterfly picked up a ball and threw it at one of the kids attempting to put Coach Jeff’s teachings in effect. Poor Jay. He had the right grip and the right posture, just as he turned his little three-year old body to begin his swing, in came a flying golf ball and hit him on the cheek.

Coach Jeff was on the other side helping out other kids so he didn’t witness the incident. But butterfly boy’s dad was there, and so was Jay’s.  The dad’s had a little pow-wow about the incident and Jay sat out a little bit until the pain subsided.

“That was not nice, mom. He did not treat Jay. That was not respect. I think he will be in timeout.”

I don’t have to wonder whether my son”gets it”. He hears me and listens. Perhaps when he’s in middle school I’ll begin to worry, but for now he continues to learn lessons.

Tarzan’s Wife and Brownies

26 Apr

 I haven’t really had good neighbors since we left “La Vecindad”.

This is the place where I grew up. The apartment building with nine units, nine families and everybody knew everybody. It was a community. Except for the people in apartment #1. That was sort of the transition apartment, where people usually lived about a year and then moved on to different places.

We had parties and everyone came out and celebrated. Some brought pozole, some rice and beans, and others blasted the cumbia music with their Sanyo Speakers. Everyone brought out their vinyl kitchen chairs and we enjoyed the festivities until the late night.

Nowadays, I can’t even ask people for salt.

In the past seven years I’ve moved four times, and nothing has been like La Vecindad family. Everyone keeps to themselves. Some people say hi to you one day and then completely ignore you the next. Others just give you the nod and then there are some who are just stuck up. 

So with my previous experiences, this current little visit from my parents’ neighbor surprised me. As you may know I am temporarily staying at my parents house and they have a couple of neighbors that fit every mold.

They have the dog-walking people who like you because you also have dog, and often strike up conversation about how well your dog looks for her age.

Then you have the older ladies, that often look out their window like they’re the captains of the Neighborhood Watch. They wake up at five o’clock in the morning and sweep their empty drive way, or pick up the one leaf that fell on the floor.

They also have the weed-smoking people who blame the smell on the rocker chick with the two cats, but it’s probably the seventy-year old couple with glaucoma.

They are all pretty neighborly, I guess.

But this neighbor … this one can borrow salt any time.  

I heard a knock at the door and didn’t really know who it was, I mean the UPS chick had already stopped by, and the Sparkletts dude didn’t come by until tomorrow. I just saw some lady with blond hair through the peep-hole.

I opened the door. It was Tarzan‘s wife. Yeah Tarzan. My parents happen to be neighbors with some dude that used to play Tarzan in some of those old movies back in the 60s. He was pretty well-known, I guess. I never knew my parents knew Tarzan.

Anyhow, his wife happen to stop by because she wanted to ask me a question.

Do you like chocolate?

Do I like chocolate! She hasn’t known me that long.

As I smiled and said of course, she showed me the large Ziploc bag that she had at her side. It was filled with bite-sized brownies — The Petite Brownie Bites from Costco.

Image via


Have you ever had these? They are awesome. They are from something called Sugar Bowl Bakery and if you like chocolate you know what I’m talking about.

She bought a Costco-sized box and said that if she didn’t give any away she might eat the whole tub herself.

What’s wrong with that, right?

I mean I’ve done it before. Just walk it off the next day.

But apparently she did not think having the entire tub of brownies in her house was a good idea, so she was wondering if I wanted the dozen that she had in the bag. She tried to encourage me by suggesting that I could give some to my son.

I didn’t need any encouragement. 

I ate the whole bag while watching Person of Interest. It’s an hour-long drama. I was done half-way through the show. I couldn’t help myself.

Tarzan’s wife rocks. She’d be fine in La Vecindad.

Green Scooby-Doo Balloon To The Rescue

21 Apr

I thought I had it all. I’ve become accustomed to thinking ahead. That’s what you do when you’ve got kids, or cranky adults. You prepare.

Festival of Books

The Festival of Books. It’s a huge event with massive crowds of book loving people who also like freebies and samples from the corporate sponsors. I’ve gone just about every year for the past eight years. But now that I have a three-year old and a nine-month old. The trip becomes more like a mission to avoid any meltdown from any child.

Coppertone Water Babies UVA/UVB Sunscreen 50 SPF.

Three Cuties oranges.

Two Ziploc bags of Cheerios.

One container of Gerber Puffs.

Two juice boxes.

Three pacifiers.

Two sippy cups of water.

One bottle of milk.

One apple.

One banana.

One Clif Kid Bar Z Crispy Chocolate Chip.

Two Clif Kid Z Fruit Ropes

One peanut butter and banana sandwich.

One diaper bag filled with baby essentials.

I thought I had it all, but it was out of my control.

After a meltdown-free morning of construction, train, and dinosaur book exploring, arts and crafts doing, and music loving under a blistering heat for three hours, we encountered the balloon. We had it for five minutes. The red balloon from the Chinese Dragon stall. Then it popped. Thin layer I guess.

I saw it coming. I got the look and then the shoulders slumped. The eyes got watery, the lower lip did the I’m-about-to-cry pucker. Then his voice cracked, and I knew it was coming.

I forgot to pack an extra balloon.

The crowd at The Festival of Books.

No worries we’ll get another one. After fifteen minutes of weaving in and out through the crowds, we found the stall. Sweet. No one was in line. However no one was in line for a reason. No more balloons.

I got the look and the shoulder slump …

I saw someone with a purple Scooby-Doo balloon. We raced back through massive pedestrian traffic past the Mystery Machine and found the chick passing out the balloons. There was no red. Just Mystery Machine colors.

Scooby-Doo Balloon

“Green. Mom. Green is my favorite. Red is no good.”

So after three Cuties oranges, one banana, one apple, half a peanut butter sandwich, two juice boxes, two bags of Cheerios, one container of puffs most of which trailed behind us courtesy of the baby, one bottle of milk, one Clif Bar Z Crispy Chocolate Chip, and two Clif Kid Z Fruit Ropes, it was the green balloon to the rescue.

We lost one sippy cup and two pacifiers in the process, but the green Scooby-Doo balloon is still in tact.

The green balloon that saved us floats among the crowd.


Note to self: pack an extra balloon.


My Three-Year Old’s Definition of Integrity and Golf School

19 Apr

Considering that I was a golf widow, I wasn’t going to do it. I thought, why lose another one. But this one would be different. This is my son. He’s awesome.

If you don’t know what a golf widow is, you should check out my post The Golf Widow’s Revenge. If your dude, husband, or partner plays golf, or is even thinking of playing golf, you should definitely read it. An enlightening nice perspective.

Anyhow, since my son’s been on hiatus from preschool, I decided to find some sort of program where he could engage in conversation with other three-year olds. Hang out with his peeps. One friend suggested some Mommy & Me group and I sort of hesitated.

I told her I didn’t have anything against this Mommy & Me group, or her, seeing how she’s the guru of all things Mommy & Me, but when we tried to hang with these chicks when my son was younger we didn’t quite fit in. I think I had the wrong diaper bag, the wrong set of snacks  and the wrong set of shoes.

Heels to a park? C’mon now. 

As for the diaper bag, apparently you can own designer diaper bags. The three-hundred dollar kind. They exist. Id’ rather take that three-hundred and go to Legoland four times. As for the snacks, well, pretzels, cheese sticks, Cutie Oranges, and Gatorade were frowned upon. I don’t know why, seemed pretty good to me. I never understood. 

Whatever. I wasn’t going to go through that situation again, so I decided to stick with my kind of people … sports.

A golf ball directly before the hole

A golf ball directly before the hole (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

After searching community bulletins and the parks department services, I found a golf academy that catered to kids his age. I was pretty excited because he didn’t meet the age requirement for The First Tee program, but this program started with three-year olds. Sweet. 

As I geared him up to go to golfing school, he was hesitant at first. Didn’t want to go because he thought I would just drop him off. But after explaining how it worked, he was very excited.

When we got there, he grabbed his clubs, raced out of the car, and ran up the ramp.

He was introduced to Coach Jeff and learned some golf etiquette, well at least tried to learn it.

Integrity. That was the word of the day. He was told what it meant and how he always needed to do the right thing and be honest, especially on the course.

Apparently if you lose a ball into the bushes and can’t find it, you can hit another ball, but you have to call out provisional. Sort of a second chance, but you’re penalized and given another stroke.

I didn’t think he would understand the concept, but he kept repeating the word integrity, the phrase ‘do the right thing’, and the word provisional.

In their little stalls each kid got six golf balls. Six. They were supposed to hit them onto the green, aiming for the circles drawn out near the hole. Once they finished chipping the ball over to the green, they were supposed to run and collect their six golf balls and repeat the exercise.

Scrambling for golf balls.

During one of their scrambles to get their six balls, one kid had seven and my son says:

“Mommy I tell the boy only six balls and he didn’t listen. He did not do the right thing. I tell him. I tell him. He lose his yellow ball and take two white balls … he did not say provisional. He did not do integrity. He did not.”

I smiled. He was awesome and I couldn’t have been prouder. 


The Bitch Emerges …

10 Apr

Ever feel like the worst version of you is winning the battle?

The Incredible Hulk: Original Soundtrack Recording

The Incredible Hulk: Original Soundtrack Recording (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

You’re used to the writer rejections.

You’re used to living on four maybe five hours of sleep at night because you swear your eight-month old has insomnia.

You’re used to your three-year old telling you “no I don’t have to go potty” and then he doesn’t quite make it in time to the toilet so you have to change his Lightning McQueen underwear again. He has 18 pair.

You’re now used to the sandpaper rough exterior of your chick hands that used to be soft, but suffered damage from months of cleaning toilets, washing dishes and constant exposure to Clorox Wipes. You should’ve used gloves earlier, but it hadn’t occurred to you, probably because of your lack of sleep.

You call a couple of friends to vent or join you for quick workout so as to relieve the stress of the human pressure cooker, but all you get is voicemail because they’re busy having a great life.

You reach for your Hawaiian Chocolate, but can’t find the box. It’s supposed to be in it’s usual place, but it’s not.

You take deep breaths and count to ten, but nothing works. You’re on the verge.

So what happened? Why did I snap? Why did the worse version of me — the inner bitch — rise from the depths and reach the surface of my sweet golden Coppertone skin?

I lost it.

By eight-thirty, nine o’clock at night I’m done. I’ve got no patience left.  I’ve spent 13 hours with two kids under the age of three that require 13 hours of constant attention and play time, well maybe 12.5 hours thanks to thirty minutes of the Go Diego, Go distraction so that I can cook dinner and wash some of the dishes.

By bed time, I’m on a zero-tolerance policy.  Patience is gone, and all I need is for them to listen. Just listen. I could use help, but that doesn’t mean I get any. Unwanted and unneeded comments, plenty. But help … not so much. Gray hair emerges. I feel it sprouting from my scalp and twirling down my curls choking out my Guat youth.

All I want is for both kids to fall asleep before Letterman starts. I need to have “me time”. An hour by myself. No washing dishes. No listening to stories. No getting advice. Just an hour to decompress and watch TV. An hour to sit and do nothing before going to sleep.

But that didn’t happen. Battle of the Bedtime sucked and I ended up yelling at my kid to go to sleep or else.

That “or else” didn’t work.

I was literally yelling, you know the type of yelling where the vein pops out and pulsates on the side of your head.

He just wasn’t listening. He was being three. That’s what they do, but today … today I couldn’t handle it.

He kept moving around, jumping around. It’s like someone gave him a box of sugar just before bed. It could’ve happened I was taking a shower and one of the frosted cupcakes we made for Easter was missing. He might have had an extra boost of Betty Crocker and I was in desperate need of “me time”.

 So I lost it. I tried counting to ten and taking deep breaths in order to calm down I tried reasoning, loving, cuddling, talking, even singing to him. But nothing worked. It was getting late and I still had a big pile of dishes and baby bottles waiting for me. I was worried that “me time” wouldn’t make it.

The wrath of The Guat was unleashed and I yelled at him like a crazed fan arguing with an umpire. I yelled like a crazy bitch. He got sad and teary eyed. He says …

I still love you mom.

Ohhhhhhhh. Like a knife to my heart. I felt terrible. I felt like I wasn’ t cut out for motherhood. 

I gave myself a time-out. No chocolate for you, Guat! None


The Crazed Egg Hunter

7 Apr

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 eggs

Easter eggs (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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.