Easter in the Death Trap for Children

As a household without children (unless  you count terriers who are perpetual four-year-olds), our house has been called a “death trap for children.” Luckily, not by the parents of children that we invite to our house regularly. And there are no people more special than the people we  invite to what we call “The Trifecta” or “The High Holy H0lidays” which are Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter. We always, for the last several years, have managed to round up the usual suspects. Who are mostly British. There are Rob and Susi (Brit/American), Julian and Vickie (Brit/Brit),  Jan and Andrew (Scot/Scot), and us (Yank/Brit). At various points, relatives and cousins started showing up, but never enough to tip the balance  over to more Yanks than Brits. Now, with various couples having children, the balance has tipped even further.

A young child being taught to belly up to the bar. And order a Pellegrino. In a Cognac glass.

Luckily, these are great parents. Or maybe not great parents by anal retentive standards. But great parents in terms of a more Darwinian approach to parenting. Or maybe it’s the Doris Day Que Sera Sera approach to parenting. Yes, what will be will be.

Our Scottish friend, Andrew, is always served dessert on a Highland Laddie plate. Because, no, that joke NEVER gets old.

Not that we didn’t try to mitigate some of the life threatening dangers in our home. The terriers were sent away for a special Easter at the dog sitters. We did extinguish all open flames. Bottles of corrosive acid were put out of child reach.

However, the three year old did figure out how to open the latch to the basement gate, toddle down the spiral stairs that could have landed her on carpet covered cement, climb up on a bar stool and help herself to a half pound of peanuts in a crystal dish which she carried back up those stairs. Okay, she could have gone into anaphalactic shock from the peanuts. She could have cracked her skull falling down the stairs. She could have broken an arm climbing up the bar stool. She probably poured herself a double measure of Glennfiddich.  But she apparently didn’t. And she survived.

Another child being taught to play the tambourine. At the bar. Shortly before he fell off a barstool.

Her little brother, at one point, was propped up on a bar stool and fell off. Only to be stopped from impact one inch from the floor, by a quick grab of the ankles by the alert father. But I always say, it’s not really a party until a child falls off a barstool.

Stereo Andrews and babies.

Luckily, the 3 month old had no near death experiences. There’s still time by Thanksgiving.

A proper English trifle (made by a Scots woman). This is a sacrament in the British Isles.

Meanwhile, we adults enjoyed good wine, good food, good company and an incredible trifle. If you aren’t British, you probably don’t understand the importance of trifle. It’s more than alcohol soaked cake, smothered in cream and custard. It’s really a sacrament. There was a moment of awed and hushed silence as the British thanked the supreme being for a Scottish woman who made trifle with her own fair hands.

Meanwhile, no children were harmed in the making of this Holiday.

Que Sera Sera.