Easter Eggs 🥚momlife

The sun peeked through the curtains like it always did on Easter morning—soft, golden, and just a little bit magical. In our home, Easter wasn’t just about pastel colors and chocolate bunnies. It was a celebration of joy, of family, of new beginnings… and most importantly, it was Mom’s day to shine.

Mom had a way of making holidays feel like a warm hug. She was a planner, a baker, a maker-of-all-things-special, and even though she lived with a disability, you’d never know it by the way she moved through these moments. To us kids, she was like a superhero in leggings and fuzzy socks. Easter was her masterpiece.

Every year, like clockwork, the egg hunt was the highlight. Not just the plastic kind stuffed with candy, but real eggs—hand-painted, glossy with homemade dye, covered in glitter, stickers, and sometimes Sharpie-drawn jokes only a mom could find funny. She would sit at the kitchen table for hours the night before, with her cane leaning against her chair, dipping eggs one by one into vinegar dye while humming to old Beatles tunes.

“You don’t need to walk fast to make something beautiful,” she once said to me when I asked why she didn’t just let us kids do the decorating. “You just need to love it enough.”

Mom had lived with chronic pain for most of her adult life. Some days, getting out of bed was a battle. Others, she’d be up at 6 a.m. making bunny-shaped pancakes and hiding eggs around the yard before the sun even thought about rising. Her disability never defined her, but it shaped the kind of mom she became—strong, tender, patient, and impossibly creative.

That Easter morning, I remember waking up to the smell of cinnamon rolls and fresh coffee. My little brother was already bouncing off the walls, gripping his Easter basket like a knight holding his shield. Mom was in the kitchen, wearing her favorite apron—the one with a cartoon egg and the words “Egg-cited for Easter!” across the front. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun, and even though her face looked tired, her smile was brighter than ever.

“Okay, team,” she said, handing us our baskets. “Eggs are hidden. Some are easy, some are tricky, and one has a very special surprise.”

“What kind of surprise?” I asked, already halfway to the backyard.

“You’ll know when you find it,” she winked. “Now go, go, go!”

Our yard was transformed into a springtime treasure map. Eggs peeked out from under flower pots, inside boots by the door, even tucked between the slats of the fence. We scrambled around like detectives, shrieking with joy every time we found one. Mom watched from the porch, sipping her coffee and cheering us on.

But one egg, a golden one, was especially hard to find. She had hidden it carefully, and for good reason. It wasn’t filled with candy or money, but with a tiny folded note.

After nearly twenty minutes of searching, I spotted it—tucked inside the mailbox. I cracked it open, and there it was: Mom’s handwriting on pink paper.

“You are my greatest treasure. ❤️ Love, Mom.”

I stood still for a moment, letting the words soak in. The world felt quiet, warm, and full of love.

Later that day, we all gathered inside. Mom, never one to let tradition slide, brought out the egg salad sandwiches made from the real eggs we’d decorated the night before. She even saved the prettiest one for the centerpiece—a tie-dye swirl of purple and blue, with little white hearts drawn on it.

As we ate, Mom told us stories about Easter when she was little—how her mom used to hide eggs in the house because Michigan springs were too cold for outdoor hunts. She told us how much she loved the smell of vinegar and how she used to dream of being an artist. “But then I had you guys,” she smiled. “And now I just make my art with eggs, pancakes, and memories.”

I always admired her resilience. Living with a disability meant she had to be extra thoughtful about how she moved, how she rested, how she planned every detail. But never once did she complain. She made holidays magical, even when her body was tired, even when the pain was real.

“Being a mom,” she said once, “isn’t about doing it all. It’s about showing up with love, however you can.”

That stuck with me. Still does.

As we grew older, the egg hunts evolved. There were fewer sparkly stickers and more inside jokes. We’d still find notes hidden in eggs—some funny, some profound, always perfectly Mom. And when my little brother got his diagnosis and started using a wheelchair, Mom adapted everything without missing a beat. She made the hunts more accessible, using ramps, baskets on strings, and egg clues we could read aloud together. It became a new kind of joy, one built on teamwork and laughter.

Easter, for our family, is about more than bunnies and eggs. It’s about how love can be found in the smallest gestures—a folded note, a messy kitchen, a glittery egg tucked in a boot. It’s about resilience, creativity, and a mom who never let her disability dim her sparkle.

Now that I’m older, I’ve taken on the egg-decorating duties. Mom still oversees, of course, offering color tips and cracking corny egg jokes. And yes, she still hides a golden egg, though now it’s for her grandkids. Her legacy lives on in every dyed shell, every laugh, every note that says, “You are my greatest treasure.”

Because that’s the thing about Easter eggs—they’re not just eggs. They’re symbols of new life, of surprises waiting to be found, of love tucked away in the quiet corners of the world. And every year, when I see my own children hunting for them, I see her—the woman who taught us that motherhood isn’t about perfection, but about presence.

So here’s to you, Mom. For every egg you dyed, every hunt you planned, every sandwich you made even when your joints ached. Thank you for showing us what real strength looks like. Thank you for loving with your whole heart.

Happy Easter. 🥚❤️

Let me know if you’d like a version in a different tone—funnier, more poetic, or simplified for kids—or if you’d like it turned into a short video script or blog post!