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Did you have a good Easter?  I bet yours was better than ours.  Matter of fact, I would place a sizable amount of money you had a better Easter than we did.

It all started after the kids went to bed and I had to grab the Easter baskets and candy.  The baskets were no problem.  I had them up in my closet so I didn't have to have what happened last year---which was not find a basket, throw a fit and run to Target at frigging midnight, only to find the offending basket full of Barbies in Lizzy's room the very next morning while we were looking for the new Easter basket.  Ironic, no???

This year I thought I had everything where it was supposed to be and it was going to be easy.  Throw the candy in the baskets, hide the baskets and chuck a few plastic eggs around the house and I'd be in bed by 11:00, tops.

Yeah, no.

I couldn't find the candy.  I hid the candy too well and I couldn't find it.  I hid the candy from myself.

You should have heard the language.  I vowed I wasn't going to run up to Target again this year.  I VOWED.  I searched from one end of the house to the other.  Cussing the whole time, "Where in the fuck did I put that candy?  God damn it, how can I be so fucking stupid to hide the candy from myself?  I am a full- fledged, card carrying member of the Idiot Society.  I hid the candy from myself.  HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN?!?"

I was not going to Target.  I was not.  I looked in cabinets, the pantry, the car, my closet, the bathroom, the laundry room and even in the laundry bins.  Nothing, no candy.

I gave up, I used Valentine's Day candy instead.

By the time I had stopped sobbing, cursing and the getting baskets together, I threw plastic eggs out around the house and I went to bed.  Not before I called my husband and told him, "FIX THIS."

It was 1:45 AM.  

The kids were up at 5:45 AM.

They hunted for their baskets, found eggs and life was good.  And then I heard Lizzy scream, "Mom!!!!  The Easter Bunny gave me Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, I hate Reese's Peanut Butter Cups!!!"  Then the crying started and didn't stop.

And from another corner of the house I heard Alex wail, "Mom, the Easter Bunny gave me chocolate lambs!!!  I hate chocolate lambs!!!"  The basket got chucked in a corner and he went running and sobbing in the opposite direction.

Meanwhile, Gracie was sitting at the kitchen table eating everything in her basket, happy as a clam.  The other two were freaking out.

The Easter Bunny, in her sleep deprived state, mixed up the baskets so my husband, after he went to Target, put the wrong candy in the wrong basket.

I screamed at them, "You guys, just switch baskets.  You can do that, right?"  Neither one of them heard me over their own wails.  All I kept thinking was, "Sue me, I got your baskets wrong.  There are starving kids in China who would LOVE to have your chocolate!"  Deep down, I felt horrible.

I gave up, went to the kitchen and thought I'd get an early start on the dinner.

And I promptly dropped the ham on my foot.  The brown sugar glaze packet broke the impact and in the process exploded all over the refrigerator, floor and my foot.  I cursed the ham to hell and decided to work on the deviled eggs.  And I couldn't get that thin layer, you know that membrane thing?  I couldn't get it off the egg.  I broke two eggs right off the bat and on the third one, I melted down, smashed them all in the sink, turned the disposer on and sent them on their merry way.

(And, yes, I soaked those damn eggs in cold water.  I even did a trial run so this wouldn't happen and it still happened so don't tell me to soak them in cold water, I got that memo.  God, that still pisses me off.)

At that point I gave up.

I took the kids to Wendy's and we had chicken nuggets and french fries for Easter.  I put all the candy into one big basket and let them play Minecraft till their hearts content.  I collapsed on the sofa and flipped back and forth between HGTV and DIY and after that we decapitated the lamb and ate it.

And that was our Easter.  I was sad, angry and upset that I couldn't pull it off.

I was getting ready to call the kids up for bed and I heard Alex say, "This was the best Easter ever!"

And just like that, all was right with my world....but I'm still pissed at those damn eggs.

I have been bested by Minecraft.

It's no secret our new thing in this house is Minecraft.  We held out as long as we could but we finally caved at Christmas.  Santa brought the kids Minecraft.  It was quite a letdown because all we could wrap was an envelope with the authorization code that needed to be entered into the computer to get the game started.  Once they figured it out though they took the envelope and ran with it.

They Ran.

We never saw them for the rest of Christmas.  Come to think of it, we saw very little of them in January, February and most of March.

Since then, we've been up to our armpits in Minecraft.  Every single thing in this house revolves around it.

And that, right there, is the rub.

We've had to find a happy middle ground where the kids are not plugged into the computer all day and life's passing them by.  They, on the other hand, would love to do nothing more than fight zombies and creepers, download mods and watch YouTube videos.

Truth be told, Minecraft is just one little part of the Total Minecraft Immersion.  You have mods, seeds, whole new worlds and maps.  All of them have to be thoroughly researched and examined on the iPad and then you chose which ones you want to download.

And you have not lived Minecraft till you've lived through the videos.  Oh dear God the videos.  They are a thing unto themselves.

We started off with these prepubescent teens, screaming, yelling and cussing every other word.  They would blow up sheep and use TNT and nuke whole damn worlds.  My kids were enjoying it a bit too much so that lasted less than two seconds in this house.

Then we found Mr. Paul.  He's the new man in our lives.  He's practically been living with us since right after Christmas.  His real name is Paul Sores Jr, and I can't tell you the number of night's I've spent with Mr. Paul, waiting for my own husband to come home.

He does the Minecraft videos in a nice, calm manner and he's downright easy on the ears.  That may not seem to be a big deal but when you are listening to these things for hours on end sometimes, voice quality becomes very important.  Trust me on this.

It got so bad at one point, I called the kids to come up and eat dinner.  They wolfed their food down in seconds. SECONDS.  Then, before I had had a chance to sit down to eat my dinner, I was being asked, "Mom, can I go back downstairs?  Can I, please?!?"  I brushed it off figuring if I ignored the question, I could at least get a little something to eat.

I was wrong.

"MOM, can I go back down stairs?!?"  Alex asked almost frantic, pacing, having to have an answer right that very second.

"Guys, I need something to eat.  Please look around you and put your dishes away.  Just give me a minute, would you?"

Well that wasn't even out of my mouth before my cute little kids with absolutely no gross and fine motor skills, found it within themselves to scoop up their dishes, round the bend of the island, turf the dishes into the sink, round the other bend of the island and with the dexterity of a skilled surgeon, set the microwave timer.

All in under ten seconds flat.

I remember standing there thinking, "What in the fuck just happened?  Jesus, I don't think I've ever seen them move that fast, Alex was almost fluid, even.  I could really use this Minecraft thing to my advantage."

And then it dawned on me, "Hey, why did you guys set the timer?"

"Well mom, you said to give you a minute.  I'm giving you exactly one minute.  Well, you now have forty-six seconds."  

So I stood there looking at my older two kids, all of us looking at each other, a three way stare down, going back and forth from looking at them to the microwave timer and back.  I never knew how excruciatingly long a minute, or forty-six seconds, could be until you're in a stare down with your two kids and the microwave.

DING!

And just like that, my older two ran like they had flaming fireballs on their heels, down the steps to the computers, back to Minecraft.  One of them ran around the corner, overshot it and smack-landed in the other side of the wall.  They righted themselves and kept right on going.  I could hear them in excited voices, "Hey lets see if we can get new saddles to ride the pigs!"

Gracie and I stood there looking at each other, wondering what in the hell just happened.

I stood there trying to figure out why in the hell a pig needed a saddle.

And that is one day in our life, living with Minecraft.

And I still don't know why a pig needs a saddle.  I did find out you have to have a carrot though.

What? You're not Irish?

I am Irish.  I'll wait till the severity of that sinks in.  

My dad came from Ireland and for my whole life, I've grown up around hot tea, wool sweaters and mashed potatoes with every single meal.  I've heard enough hornpipe and bagpipes to last a lifetime and I also know how to do a jig and a reel in my sleep.  If push comes to shove, I can slug out a steady stream of cuss words in full accent, always starting off with, "Bloody Hell..."  I do it much better, however, when I'm piss wasted, just saying. 

    

Anyway, my mom gears up for the Holy Day like no other.  Lizzy does Irish dance and she's been prostituted out like a French whore to every old folks home in Kansas City for the past two weeks.  She danced for miles and miles in parades and snow and she just keeps on going.     

I have danced my ass off.  

But what tops our St. Patrick's Day festivities is the clothes. Aside from walking around in green for the last two weeks, my mom tries to get anyone she can to dress in green with her.  Since the three year old is still young and vulnerable, and she doesn't run fast enough, she gets stuck wearing what Grandma puts her in.  And Grandam bought Gracie this cute little green shirt.  See that thing down there?  My mom kept telling me about the, "Adorable little shirt," she bought for her.  She failed to realize that all the white shamrocks, when put together, made a shape.  

A SKULL.  

My mom bought the girls skin-head tee shirts for St. Patrick's Day.

I have no earthly clue what she is doing.
Practicing to lead jets down the jetway, I guess.  

All they needed were a few tube socks full of rocks and they could go out and raise hell, in true Irish fashion, with their brother.

Only fitting I put Creeper heads on the girls.  Bonus points because they are green.  

And then I made this:

Anyone sends this to Cake Wrecks and
I'll find you and gut you.  Fair warning.  

An Irish Lamb Cake.

Normally in our house the Sacrificial Lamb Cake is reserved for Easter but I wanted to get an early start.  Nothing says, "Happy St. Patrick's Day!" like cutting into the green guts of a lamb.

And go read this right here, if you want to hear about our past Easter fun but I suggest you stop drinking your soda because we don't do holidays in the normal fashion around here.  You've been warned.

I already know, I totally fucked up the icing.  It got all droopy and was a bloody mess.  The kids thought it was hysterical, renamed it George, and instead of a lamb it was now a sheepdog.

Whatever.

And what did Alex do for St. Patrick's Day?  He played Minecraft, watched YouTube videos about Minecraft, downloaded mods for Minecraft, made Minecraft skin, new Minecraft worlds, found emeralds and redstone and generally talked my ear off about?  Minecraft.

I went with it.