Tag Archives: crazy parents

Yeah … I Don’t Know What It Is About Easter Egg Hunts

29 Mar

As Easter weekend approaches I’m bracing myself for encounters with crazy parents and crowds of children. Just thinking about it causes anxiety and I think I’ll need to meditate twice tonight just to prepare myself for the aggravation ahead of me this weekend.

There are two egg hunts in my parenting future. One on Saturday. One on Sunday. I so wish I could just scrap the Saturday one and go to the beach with the kids, but we’re making memories, right? So I gotta just cowboy up.

But in truth it’s not so much the kids that will annoy me, it’s the parents. Have you seen these people on Easter in Easter Egg Hunts? Have you seen them leave their own kid in the dust and steamroll other three-year olds for a purple plastic egg?


I saw this and I thought of them.


Image via LeFunny.net

Image via LeFunny.net


I don’t know what it is about Easter Egg Hunts that brings out the crazy and the stupid in people. But it does. Wish me luck as I encounter all kinds of parents this weekend. I’ll try to remain Zen-like.



Tommy Knows How I Feel About the Mommy & Me Mafia

25 Oct

Sometimes for your kids you make great sacrifices. You take one for the team so that they can enjoy the sandbox and the slides.

However, when it comes to this group I’m just not having it. I hang out with the outcasts like the single dad or the housekeeper. But in truth, I don’t mind being an outsider. In fact when it comes to this group I enjoy the looking-from-the-outside-in perspective… it’s great material.

The Mommy & Me Mafia.

I know I’ve mentioned them before in passing, but you may not be aware of them. It’s a cult. They hang out at the park with their fancy diaper bags, Jackie-O sunglasses, greasy hair, and flip-flops. As soon as you walk in with your Sports Authority attire and New Balance, they check you out from top to bottom, you know, to see if they’ll let you sit at the lunch table. They talk about mommy stuff 24-7, but they aren’t really paying attention to their kids at all. They sit there checking out their new mommy apps on their iPhones and the only time they glance up from their little mommy pow-wow is when they hear a kid scream, and it’s usually their kid who’s causing most of the drama.

The Mommy & Me Mafia trip me out. I tend to stay away from cliques. I’m not in high school anymore. I have a couple of gray hairs already. My time is valuable. I don’t need the catty drama. I don’t have time to hang out with people I don’t like. I don’t have time to listen to fake stories about how awesome their kid is, how they never act up at the supermarket, and how they can already read at third-grade level. Cut it out. He still wears Pull-Ups.

So, when I run into the Mommy & Me Mafia at a park, a regular park, not one of those sharing parks, and they take liberties with my kids’ toys, I tend to have a Tommy Gavin moment.

Tommy Gavin. I love that clip from Rescue Me. I couldn’t stop laughing at his own encounter with a member of the Mommy & Me Mafia park group. I would love to be part of his Parent & Me group. He’d keep it real. No fakes allowed.

But before you guys get all crazy and start defending these Mommy & Me Mafia groups to the death, I understand that not all of the groups are like this. Some of them provide great support for single parents, or overwhelmed parents. I know they exist somewhere in the Northern Hemisphere. But when I’m 3 for 3 with the crazy moms in groups like these, let’s just say that I’m sticking to the sports scene. Although I’ve seen the crazy sports parent too. But at least with sports, you get to enjoy a game.

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.