One of the things you’re supposed to do when you’re a father is plan appropriate holiday celebrations for your children. Presents at Christmastime. Costumes at Halloween. And colorful, hidden eggs to discover on Easter.

It is with great shame to confess that this was the best I could do last Sunday morning.

The eggs in question were neither hidden nor colorful. I figured that August, being still small and unsophisticated, might give me a pass.

Not so. If he had a working grasp of expletives, I’m sure I would have heard them.

In my defense, we were stuck in a motel in Nebraska. In my defense, by the time my second child was ready for breakfast, I was able to provide. He said he wanted pizza and there was still a slice left over from our feast the night before.

While I praised myself for being such a solid provider, August retaliated by pulling all the wipes out of the diaper bag.

Disgusted with myself and deciding that a change of scenery was in order, we got in the car and drove back to Kansas City.

Where we found joy by rolling down a hill.

And strutting about in new clothes.

And taking a bath.

And lounging in the sunlight.

As far as I can tell, the kids have no idea that Easter was supposed to have happened, so Robbi and I may just re-stage the whole affair when I get back to Chestertown next week. Just so you’re not surprised if you see the Easter Bunny on Queen Street.