I walk past the table and it stares back at me. It has been sitting on the table for a few weeks since I first brought it home. The colors and animated characters on the cover promise a good time filled with giggles and joy – leaving behind nothing but happy memories of a special moment in time.
I try to ignore it. I pretend I don’t see it. I walk past it and look the other way. And I almost succeed in blocking it out of my mind – that is, until I open the refrigerator.
There they are. Sitting there. Waiting. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for a change of scenery – perhaps a dip in the hot tub or adding a bit of color. But, alas, there they sit with unfulfilled potential.
I pretend that all is okay. That I have done all I can to ensure my children have experienced the best of each and every day. I try to pretend. But deep down I know that I am a fraud.
A FRAUD, I SAY!
You see, my kids didn’t dye Easter eggs this year. I admit it. I am a cheapened shell of the father I set out to be. I cannot help but admit that I succumbed to the allure of plastic, pastel-colored eggs. There will be do photos of my kids drinking dye. There will be no fond memories of writing our names on eggs with the “Magic” crayon. And, perhaps most important, there will be no egg salad sandwiches.
I humbly admit this to you, my fellow parents, to repent and beg for your forgiveness. I have shamed all that is good about being a parent.
I’ll make it up to you. I promise to get sparklers for them on the Fourth of July. A few singed fingers will be a small price to pay to redeem myself in the eyes of my parenting bretheren.
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