Easter always makes me miss my Nanny.

Not in the dramatic, sit-in-a-corner-and-weep way.

Just in the quiet, unexpected way that sneaks up on you when you realize something small is missing.

For me this year, it was deviled eggs.

Now here’s the funny part.

I don’t even eat deviled eggs.

I just make them.

Because Nanny made them.

Every Easter when I was little meant the same rhythm of places and people.

You went to Grandma’s to hunt eggs.

Then you went to Nanny’s to eat.

And somewhere on that table were her deviled eggs and potato salad.

I can still picture them perfectly.

The tray.

The paprika dusted across the top.

The way she’d always make enough for an army even if twelve people were coming.

And somehow this year… there were no deviled eggs anywhere.

We went to Mimi’s and she did a crawfish boil. The kids played outside, splashed in the rain, and colored eggs. It was loud and messy and wonderful in its own way.

On the way home we stopped and picked up ducklings.

Because clearly our house didn’t have enough chaos already.

The next morning was Easter.

The bunny came.

The girls were thrilled because we actually caught him on the Ring camera leaving the baskets. Watching them believe that footage was basically proof of magic might have been my favorite moment of the day.

We hunted eggs.

Then we went to dinner at Tom Tom’s work.

It was a good day. A really good day.

But somewhere in the back of my mind all day I kept thinking:

There should be deviled eggs.

Funny how grief works like that.

It’s not always the big moments.

Sometimes it’s a missing side dish.

And while I miss those simple holidays when we went house to house eating eggs and potato salad, I also get to watch something really special happening now.

With ten kids in this family, I get to see every stage of life at once.

Teenagers becoming adults.

Big kids figuring out their futures.

Little kids still believing the Easter Bunny gets caught on security cameras.

And ducks.

Oh my goodness the ducks.

Today was full cleaning day for the million pets we apparently own now.

We were changing the duck bedding and Harper was holding one. She stood up and before I could even say,

“Harper, you’re supposed to sit down”

the duckling slipped right out of her hands.

Not far. Not hard. But enough to scare Mama half to death.

So I scooped the little duck up to make sure she was okay and started loving on her.

Which is when she repaid me by panic-pooping directly onto my hand and down my leg.

Apparently motherhood has many glamorous moments.

This was not one of them.

The ducks are muddy little monsters and somehow the girls love them even more because of it. All three of them cuddle together in the brooder like tiny feathered potatoes.

By the end of the day everything was cleaned, everyone was happy, and the house felt calm again.

Today I didn’t have to work much. I caught up on laundry, pets, kids, and life.

And those are my favorite kinds of days.

The ones where you realize the house is loud and messy and full  but in the best way.

I still miss my Nanny.

And next Easter I’m making the deviled eggs.

Not because I eat them.

But because some traditions deserve to survive the chaos.

Even if a duck poops on you in the middle of it.