Recovery

My daughter attended an Easter Egg party at her cousins’ house this afternoon. By hour two, she was sugar-laden and tired.

The party culminated with an egg-fetti fight. Each attendee received a carton of eighteen egg-fetti eggs with which to bombard the party’s other attendees. Soon, the egg-fetti war reached a stalemate. Teams were perched in different parts of the yard. You could cut the tension with a knife.

Then the attacks came. My daughter got hit. Strike one. Someone stole her eggs. Strike two. She got the box back, but all the eggs weren’t returned. Strike three.

She was in tears, so we talked. I assured her that the egg-fetti fight wasn’t worth crying about. She told me to let her calm down, and she would be fine.

And you know what? She was right.

She calmed down, took the fight to the other partygoers, sustained some confetti injuries without complaint, and left the party on good terms with the attendees and the world.

I’m not sure what clicked for her, but something did. I told her I was proud of her. I really was.