By the time I was four, my two year-old sister, Jean, was better at finding Easter baskets than I was.
We’d wake up early and I’d knock her over as we ran down the hall. We searched for our baskets. I frantically opened cupboards and tore the pillows off the couches as I listened to Jean squeal as she found hers.
“You want help, Jimmy?” she’d ask.
“I already know where it is,” I’d say. “I just don’t like being first at everything.” Invariably, she’d find mine first anyway and I suffered through the humiliation of her saying, “Jimmy, you’re getting warmer.”
And then we’d go on an Easter egg hunt. Jean had a habit of counting how many eggs she had found. She was usually up to seven or eight by the time I found my first one. When she’d get to about ten, I’d start throwing oranges in my basket and counting them.
After she had around 15, she’d go set her basket down and point out eggs for me.
And today was my first Easter with Zach. Kristi hid our baskets and Zach, who’s almost one, found his basket first.
I take solace in the fact that even Zach thinks my Easter basket had better loot in it.