Look what my mother brought my kids for Easter:
You see something fun. You see kids running around the yard, joyfully making a colorful mess.
I see everything I ever knew about my own mother and her aversion to pointless messes . . . shattered.
Shattered like colorful eggshells strewn across the sidewalk.
(I feel the need to point out that my children have pointed out that I say “hmmmph” whenever something happens or someone says something that I feel doesn’t deserve an answer.
They have also pointed out that Grammy does the exact same thing in the exact same tone.)
The mother of my own childhood gave many an impassioned speech, filled with well-supported points, about the evils of all things confetti.
More than pointless.
Its only purpose is to make a mess. A difficult-to-clean-up mess.
I actually remember a moment when I was concerned for a high school boyfriend who had ended up with a piece of confetti in his eye. It’s not an exact quote, but she said something like, “Well, that’s what happens when people use . . . confetti.”
Obviously, something happened over the last 20 (plus) years that has changed this woman I thought I knew.
She became . . . a Grandma.