We don’t practice faith. We’re predominantly a pagan-embracing family, particularly the late Classical Greek and high Roman pagan mythologies. I am partial to the Lutheran faith simply for its no nonsense values and no patience for false idolatry. The girls are in a Catholic subscribing school, in Ireland that doesn’t mean an awful lot in my book. You get extra days off and sit through the preachings of the good man Jesus and the wanker Judah. Speaking of which, Phillip Pullman’s novel of a similar title to the last sentence is very good.

Anyhoo, we don’t practice. It is not that we are fervent atheists or we are some crazy cult of Rainbow Lovers, nor are we cultist nudists. It stems from my dislike of most organised religions, Hubby’s lack of motivation to be an active attendee or devotee and, well, the kids go to Church with their grandparents but to them it’s just “a man in a dress going on and on and on” (actual words). So! Easter means little more in our house than a day to gorge on the joys of Cadbury and NestlΓ© and to a lesser extent, the Lidl offerings; a sizeable dinner on the table in the evening and, for me, a day dedicated to cleaning the house.

Hubby started off my nightmare morning by announcing the kids did not need breakfast because Easter is a junk day. No, I did not punch him (I have recently grown out of that tendency) but after quietly and angrily correcting his moral, ethical and parental compass, we managed to get a piece of fruit each into them, around the stick of Rolos and Lindt bugs they shared. They then scootled off to the grandparents for an Easter Egg hunt while I amused myself as only a half awake mummy can; with daytime TV, online tabloid newspapers and the ubiquitous FB. About 40 minutes into this exhausting morning, I put on my working gear (meaning I tied my hair up) and cleaned. Yes, God, today is even a Sabbath, as well as the day of your recognised son rising again and I cleaned. I did laundry, I even hoovered the couch and the stairs. And then my beloved trio arrived home with 5- FIVE bags of varying degrees of junk and proceeded to tear through them like malnourished whatsits. By Golly. I wasn’t angry at them, per-say, more at the sheer cheek of their devoted father allowing them free rein on sugar (AGAIN) with little more in their tummies than most of a small apple and a funsize banana respectively. Promptly occupied kids, tornado-ed away their bags, filing down the genuine junk from the actual chocolate and stashed them away where they’ll never find them – AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHA, that being in the corner of the kitchen, near my cookbook counter. Not stealthy, but for all their smarts, the kids wouldn’t actually check the ostentatiously massive blue bag crammed with shiny packaging.

My mind and their sugar levels are now calm. I got a decent sized meal into them at dinner time and they haven’t had anything except a Cadbury Caramel mini-bunny each since they got home from the domestic Wonka factory that produced my husband.

I may not be religious, but I do enjoy a holiday and what is even better?? It’s a guaranteed cleaning day for me, here in Ireland, at least 3 times a month (if I remain faithful to the Roman Catholic Calendar) πŸ˜€

Happy Easter to the devoted, Happy Sugar Rush Day to the non. πŸ˜€ πŸ˜€ πŸ˜€

Over and Out.


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