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If you’re enjoying following “PostGrad Single Dad,” be sure to go listen to the latest episode of “The DadGum Podcast,” live on Grandex Labs.
“Alright, Grant, now here’s what you’re going to do… hey listen, I’m dropping dimes with this advice right now. Run all the way to the back first, back by the fence. Ignore the eggs in front of you — they’re fools gold. Trust me, kid, ignore the ones in front and you’ll clean up the eggs where no kids have run to yet.”
Grant’s uncle, Scott, finished his strategy rant by taking a hearty swig of the whiskey-coke residing in the Styrofoam cup in his hand. Grant, clutching his plastic basket, looked up at his father.
“Yeah, buddy, go with your uncle’s plan. There’s a ton of kids, they’ll all swarm the eggs up front. You’ll be fine.”
But you probably won’t be fine. There’s a zillion kids here, not many eggs, and you’ve got the killer instinct of a kitten. God, I hope he gets at least one egg. Also, isn’t this fucking thing supposed to be a “hunt”? Not exactly making them work for it when a step in any direction could make me roll my ankle on cheap plastic.
He and Grant were posted up next to a shin-high piece of rope on the outskirts of the Easter Egg Hunt area at the local country club that Grant’s grandparents belonged to. His brother Scott had joined them, partly because he enjoyed hanging out with Grant when he was in town but mostly because he had a tee time thirty minutes after the hunt and figured it’d be in bad taste not to go watch his nephew.
“Four to six-year-olds, line up!” came a shrill voice from a megaphone. The poor woman tasked with rounding up the three separate age groups was trying to corral the upcoming hunters while simultaneously dispersing the younger kids who’d just run wild.
As Grant shook with excitement waiting for the onslaught to begin, his father scanned their surroundings. Being on the low end of the age scale in this group was going to do Grant no favors. Some of these six-year-olds practically looked like full-grown men compared to Grant.
Surveying the scene, he realized he was staring at a pack of hungry lions about to pounce on a herd of gazelle. He spied a group of older kids just feet from where he and Grant stood, the tallest of them pointing out to the field of eggs like he was Tom Brady identifying the Mike linebacker.
Damn, he might get stepped on out there…maybe he should just dive on that egg in front of him and smother it like a loose grenade…Jesus Christ, that kid in the Paw Patrol polo looks like he’s on steroids. This is going to be a disaster.
He felt like he needed to prep Grant’s emotions for what was certain failure. Grabbing his shoulders and crouching down, he said, “Okay, buddy, you have fun. Remember, it’s all about enjoying yourself, it’s not about how many eggs you get. Plus, when we’re done you can go play in the bouncy house again.” He’d spent the first thirty minutes of their time at the country club shooting around the bouncy house like a crackhead.
“Okay, Daddy, I can’t wait! I’m so excited to get all the eggs!”
Fuck, that didn’t dent his expectations even a little bit.
“Alright, everyone, we’re about to start!” Megaphone woman was back.
“Crush it out there, Grant, let them know who’s boss,” said Scott, who then whispered in his brother’s ear, “As soon as he takes off I’m headed back over to the range, tell him I had an emergency or something and that I said he did great.”
His brother nodded, jaw tightened over the stress of his son’s impending failure.
Megaphone woman spoke again, like a Roman Emperor signaling the beginning of a gladiator battle, raised her speaking apparatus one final time. “OkY, three, two, ONE! GO!”
Grant and a zillion other kids shot out like a cannon. The scene resembled the beginning of the Hunger Games, albeit with kids swinging pastel-colored baskets instead of weapons.
At first, lost in the madness, he zeroed in on Grant’s light blue shirt running like a madman toward the back. To his shock, the kid was stopping and grabbing eggs with reckless abandon.
The narrative of a kitten’s killer instinct was melting away before his eyes. Not once, but twice he saw Grant simultaneously reach for an egg at the same time as another child and throw a little body weight into boxing out and grabbing the egg.
He was running, spinning around, and lightly trucking through other kids left and right. It was like watching an in-his-prime Adrian Peterson, and not just because he was being physical with children. His father was beside himself.
Holy shit, if egg hunting was a sport this kid would be the next Griffey. Doesn’t explain why he still won’t get in the mix during his soccer games, but Goddamn he’s grabbing these eggs like a pro.
The rapid pace of egg hunting children slowed. As quickly as it had began, the egg hunt reached a rapid end. The overwhelming ratio of children to eggs hadn’t left many opportunities to stack their baskets for the competitors.
This didn’t apply to Grant. He jogged back to his father with at least a baker’s dozen, the thrill of victory in his face.
“Look at all my eggs, Daddy! I got a hundred!”
Not quite, but you fucking crushed it, son.
“High-five, buddy, way to go!”
Two of his classmates walked up to compare baskets. Like Grant’s soccer teammates, he didn’t know their names, but he didn’t need to know their names to know that Floppy Hair and Green Shoelaces didn’t have combined what Grant had in his basket.
Floppy Hair peered at Grant’s basket. “Wow! You got a hundred eggs!”
What the fuck is wrong with these kids’ number association.
Grant smiled wide. “Yep! Here, you guys can have some!” With that, he scooped two eggs each in Floppy Hair & Green Shoelace’s buckets. His father smiled with pride.
“You know what, buddy, how about we go get some ice cream?” He was bursting with pride at both his son’s performance and his generosity.
“Oh, no thanks, I’m going to play with my friends, can you hold my bucket?” With that he pushed his bucket into his father’s hands and sprinted to the bouncy house with his friends. .