Eggs

To put it mildly: Joseph loves eggs. He loves cracking them. He loves looking at them. He loves touching them. He loves naming them. He loves hiding them...you know, around the house...regular, need-to-be-refrigerated eggs. He hides them. I find them, without knowing that he hid them in the first place. This is a cool game. Really, it is. Unless I have NO IDEA WHEN he put that egg under the La-Z-Boy. My mom, encouraging the love, dropped off a carton of eggs for Joseph last week. He put his name on it and carried it around the house. He asked to sleep with it. Poor baby cried himself to sleep when I refused. I went to bed and cried myself to sleep with terrible thoughts of my three-year-old running away to the refrigerator section of the grocery store, so that he could live with people who understand him.

Okay, this was the next brilliant plan from Honey. Joseph went to bed happy with his new carton of colorful, plastic eggs.

Until I found Joseph covered in chocolate this morning.

Mom, did you seriously put M&Ms in these?

Let's talk about grandchildren for a minute. Growing up, we were like any other kids. If we drew on the wall, Mom would hand us a wet rag and tell us to wash it off. Fast forward to the first GRANDCHILD drawing on the wall. Mom left the "artwork" up there for a week and honestly thought about putting a frame around it.

Nonna is the same way. The children have two hands, so they need a cookie for each one. Just because one child is having a birthday doesn't mean that EACH CHILD shouldn't get a present. Not that Matt and I are bitter. I'm just saying: "Where's the love?"