Unfortunately I was not there to witness the event, as I surely would love to have seen the confused and slightly alarmed expression on my father's face. I don't know how long it took them to work out that my mom, her mind on practical things (getting to church on time) thought my dad was referring to my brother getting out of bed. Thus, a Martin family tradition was born and every Easter we have cinnamon rolls for breakfast.
It was still a lot of fun, cracked eggs, splattered clothes and all.
Afterward we tossed the traumatized eggs into the grass in the backyard for The Precious to hunt, and having one egg hunt under his belt already, he took to the task right away. He enjoyed this part even more than the dying - the family all standing around applauding wildly at each new acquisition. Sometimes they made it to the basket, and sometimes they were simply hurled back into the grass with glee.