Joyeux Paques

Christmas was not my favorite time of year growing up. Our house was like the one at the start of “Home Alone”: filled with chaos, drama and noise. People coming and going, siblings fighting, hospitals paging (!!) and calling, suitcases and ski equipment everywhere. It wasn’t great. But Easter always was. 

Easter was when we flew south, like the birds and the retirees, to Florida. To an escape from the brutal Michigan winter. To the Gulf Coast, white sands and soft saltwater waves. Me, my little sister, my parents and the sunshine. I recall wave jumping and pool noodles and Easter baskets and pastels and brunches— glorious Easter Sunday hotel buffet brunches. The omelette station was my favorite— just cheese, please, for me, though I was always intrigued by the forbidden cubes of pink ham. 

[Aside: I once dated a guy in law school who told me he didn’t like “brunch.” This boggled my late 20something-year-old-in-NYC brain until I realized his idea of “brunch” was a hotel Sunday brunch buffet and then THAT also boggled my mind  BECAUSE WHO DOESN’T LIKE A HOTEL BUFFET BRUNCH?!]

My three year old loves Christmas already. Yesterday he asked me if we could put up the Christmas tree 🎄 His Christmases will be without chaos, noise and drama, fingers crossed. And, while he might not have Floridian sands and buffet brunches for his Easter holidays, he’ll always have Paris.