A Twix is not a Sprinkle

Saturday morning we got up early. It had been raining for a couple of days and I anticipated standing in the pouring rain while the kids ran around finding chocolate filled eggs. But Lo! The sun came out and instead of rain I stood in weak April sunshine. The wind kicked up from Penn Cove and all the parents huddled with hands around coffee cups waiting for the Soroptomists to give the go sign.

I juggled coffee and camera, switching whenever the camera hand went numb to the radiant heat of the paper cup. At last they released the hounds, so to speak, and dozens of kids plunged into carefully cordoned areas. The Muralist confident that she could find "princess" eggs grabbed a couple, examined them and put them back.

"No, honey!" I cried, "Get as many as you can." That seemed to snap her out of it and she began to pounce on them.

The Verbalist ran around making whooshing sound effects. "Dum dum dum DA!" he cried everytime he grabbed one. When there were no more eggs to be found, we hustled out way out of the crowd and headed home. After a quick lunch the Muralsit and I headed off to a birthday party.

It was a sea of gigling girls dressed as princesses and brides, with wildly rocketing prams and one little boy desperate to hold his own against the tide of his sister's friends. As the birthday girl sat surrounded by her court opening gifts, the Muralist tried to boss. "Open this one, now this, now the one with the Big Ribbon."

They all oohed and aahed over Polly Pockets and Cinderellas and elbow length gloves. Cake was served and the Muralist started to take candies and push them into her frosting. Looking around at a close, if giggly, chum she said, "It needs sprinkles." Her solemn pronouncement recalled to mind and exchange between Homer Simpson and Apu:

"A Twix is not a sprinkle, a Twizzler is not a sprinkle, you can't put candy on there and call it a sprinkle..."