Easter isn’t easy. For me, it feels harder than Christmas. Easter was the first time L made herself sick, many years ago now. I’ve never much cared for Easter egg giving and didn’t do it when the children were young, as J tended to go bonkers after eating chocolate and relatives always insisted on giving them eggs, so I gave books or toys. L tells me she loves Easter baking, but this makes me feel anxious and queasy. I remember the Easter before she was diagnosed and the sick revelation of her recipe obsession and her insistence on cooking elaborate meals and baking for all of us.
But L comes for Easter Sunday. I have managed well all weekend despite not seeing her at all. I am keeping myself busy by clearing out the loft cupboards either side of her bedroom and she arrives as the room is in chaos. She seems in really high spirits. Through the afternoon, she helps me, but all she really wants to do is go through my iPod, searching for songs she has loved. She dances along to Stronger by Kelly Clarkson, Mambo No 5 by Lou Bega and belts out Drop in the Ocean by Ron Pope, into an empty Becks bottle. (I drank the beer). I cook dinner and make L a veggie option instead of the beef, but keep her eating Yorkshire pudding and roast potatoes. She makes dessert, from full fat yogurt and meringue and then eats a Creme Egg offered by J. We snuggle on the sofa to watch Sherlock and in the morning, she brings C and me breakfast. It is perfect.