Easter, on many different levels, is a celebration of the renewal of life: the world starts thawing, life hints at returning, and the younger among us race around in the pleasant sunshine replenishing their chocolate stash. It is indeed a holiday of hope…and hurling.

My family holds an egg hunt each year of practically ridiculous proportions. The reason it’s practically ridiculous is that there are so many contributors to the loot that we run out of hiding places long before we run out of treasures. Jason and I donate a large quantity of candy, prizes, and good ol’ fashioned cash. My parents, my brother, and my sister also all add to the enormous pot. Ultimately, most of the kids need something bigger than a basket to carry their findings, as one of my nephews informed me.

Our hunt this year proceeded as usual. The children sprinted about in an unruly fashion reminiscent of a frenzied stampede as they hurriedly searched for the hidden while overlooking the obvious. In the end, some of the kids retrieved much more than their allotment of treats while others remained disappointed by their limited finds. We partially corrected these allocation injustices but allowed some elitism, as it was part of our design. For the golden egg, though sought by all, can only be claimed by one. In this case, that one was Madison, who used her teenage guile to outmaneuver the other seekers.

After the hunt we had a lovely Easter dinner, which was augmented by the festive cookies that Jason and I had made. Then the kids lined up for scooter rides around the neighborhood before we all headed to the park. I refer to this playground near my parents’ house as “vomit common” because of its greater than average number of dizzying devices. The results of a trip to this park are inevitable. Without fail, the kids convince the adults that they are weaklings if they don’t go for a spin or two on something sickening. For some reason this taunting works even though we grownups know full well the outcome of such tipsy activities. Next, the adults, realizing that their fate is unavoidable and wishing for some puking partners, shame each other into riding those ridiculous personal merry-go-rounds faster and longer. We relish each other’s vertiginous torment yet cannot escape our own anguish. Eventually, we all end up woozy and regretting our feeble will. Our excursion to the park that day followed this pattern precisely. I had a great time harassing my family members but felt queasy for hours from my own ill-fated revolutions. Barfing would have been a welcomed relief.

Easter is about rebirth and, in keeping with that tradition, we rebirthed a whole lot this year. We revived our glucose levels with too many sugary cookies, we renewed our upchuck reflexes with too many turns, and we reawakened our primeval hunting skills with a frantic golden egg quest. Our holiday was a magnificent reminder that spring has arrived and it’s time for some refreshing transformations.