I fucking love Easter.

It is my third favourite holiday (Christmas is first, obviously. The newly decreed 12 Days of Kelley a close second).

Not only do I get to have a four day weekend fully paid, but I get to decorate AND have a magical creature to do my dirty work.

The washing has been taken off the line, the dishwasher emptied.

The goddamOMGwhydidIdecoratewithrealchocolate Easter Egg wrappers are off the floor and he is wearing pants.

Most of the time.

Sure, never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would have a 15 year old that would still believe in The Great Defecator of Chocolate, but here we are.

And to be honest it is pretty damn awesome.

I don’t know what I will do when he doesn’t any more.

I adore the look of excitement in his eyes.

The look of utter terror when I motion to pick up my phone if he is sassy or disobedient or wont do his chores.

But mostly the look of wonder and excitement.

Mostly.

I still remember being so excited when I was little, chocolate was a rare treat.

Being woken by my brother to sneak out into the lounge to see what was left for us.

I remember being woken by squealing excited voices of my babies after they had checked their baskets from The Bunny.

And all three of them racing outside with their Easter Baskets to hunt for dew covered eggs, only to throw them on the trampoline and bounce like crazy till they were smashed or someone was – inevitably – crying or sulking.

This year will be our first year with just one child home.

The Damn Emos working and moving and getting on with their lives.

But I have one very excited boy on his very best behaviour, marking off the days until the magical day.

And that is pretty damn fabulous.

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