The Perils of Dying Easter Eggs…

There are some things a person never wants to hear.

My pants were covered in smelly, yellow liquid, when my mom offered to change me.

It didn’t sound good.

I promise, this is not some sort of broken-ankle inducing incontinence. Let’s back up.

Big sis, Mom and I were all dying Easter eggs.

Big sis’s were REALLY boring. Her method is to put an egg in the bottom of the cup, and to leave it there until it’s a really intense color. Uniform all over. *Yawn*

My method involved putting an egg on top of her egg so that only one half would get covered in dye, then switching colors. It was all the more fun because it irritated Big Sis.

See? Those pretty 3 colored ones are mine. 🙂

“You’re mixing the colors.”

“I am not. You’re just sad you didn’t think of it first”

Even when you’re getting closer to 30 than 20, bickering with your sibling never really gets old. We were all having fun, until we battled over colors.

I wanted the purple one, but Big Sis would only part with the yellow, which she placed WAY to close to the corner of the countertop. (I’m not just saying that to make the rest of it seem like her fault. Which it was. Mostly.)

Then, as if on cue, I reached one way, she reached the other, and the yellow dye (with two eggs in it) became compromised. (One of us hit it.  …it might have been me.) It spilled all over the countertop, my pants, and the carpeting below. (By the way, did you know that salt can help absorb liquids that stain? It’s especially recommended for wine spills. Wink wink.)

Anyways, the salt was working on the stain on the carpet, we’d mopped up the counter, and none of the dumped eggs were broken. My pajama bottoms might have been wrecked, but they weren’t my favorites anyway.

As I crutched to the bathroom to remove my vinegar soaked clothing, mom said the words that caused my very soul to cringe.

“You just get into the bathroom, and I’ll come and change you.”

Truthfully, it is difficult for me to get my bottoms on and off. They get caught on the cast, and I’m just not flexible enough to figure it out just yet.

But still, Mom. You’re not really helping on the dignity front.

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