Memoirs of a Mediocre Mother: Hairy Christmas and Holi Messes

We're not Sunday (or any other day of the week) churchgoers, so at first I thought attending the Holi Festival of Colors at the Krishna Temple in Spanish Fork would be a bit of a stretch for the Tarasevich Tribe. That is, until I discovered that every Mormon, Aetheist, Christian, and otherwise religiously affiliated schlep this side of Beaver would be in attendance---and have the photos up on Facebook by nights-end to prove it.

Having been warned that the Holi colors would make a holy mess of our clothing, we donned threads we didn't give a damn about, which made for a less than fashion forward family of five (minus Felicia who's away at college).

Unfortunately, the color-bombing (often by strangers) was the only part of the festival we were prepared for. Nobody told me that there'd be a long, sardine-like procession of people waiting to get into the Holi gates on the right while exhausted rainbow-colored attendees exited on the left. Nobody mentioned that I'd have the unique opportunity of being pressed between a squeaky clean BYU student and a shirtless middle-aged man for the better part of an hour while awaiting my rainbow baptism. Crashing the Holi Festival is not for the claustrophobic. Herd-like behavior ensued and I swear the boys actually began mooing as we neared the entrance. Alright, they didn't moo. But that's what it began to sound like after the umpteenth time they reminded me, "Mom, I'm thirsty" before we reached the front of the psedo-line.

Seriously, what kind of mother remembers her lip gloss and forgets to pack bottled water for the Holi Fest? This guy.

Once inside, colors cost $2.00 a bag but anyone you look twice at will gladly give you a fistful of magenta to the face for free. Everybody wants to hug you, whether you ask for it or not. But nobody wants to tell you where the nearest garbage can is because, apparently, there are none to be found. Empty color bags blanket the ground in a carpet of kaleidoscopic plastic. I told the boys to hang onto their spent bags for future disposal, but after a few songs by the Hard Rock Hare Krishna band we were tossing empties at our feet like the best of them.

We were hot and dirty and happy, having a helluva great time with people we never planned to see again. It was like buying a Day Pass to Burning Man. Playa for Pussies. We got to experience the thrill of communal worship and joy, get dirty up in every crack and crevice, and then get the hell out---home to a hot shower, a clean commode, and a wastebasket in every room.

All in all, it was a day full of colorful chaos and one slightly terrifying moment of panic when the colors were thrown and our oxygen supplies were momentarily replaced by rolling waves of chalk. Tru was a bit disappointed that I wouldn't let him body surf and Jet felt sorry for the "Burning Witch" until I explained to him that it was just a straw sacrifice and not a real person. My personal favorite part of the day is when Tru began singing along with the crowd: "Pray for those who hurt you!", and scolded me for not chiming in, "C'mon Mom, jump and sing! Everyone else is doing it." I suppose there could be worse kinds of peer pressure to give into.

For the record, I jumped.
I sang.
I hugged a Hairy Christmas (as Tru called them) or two.
We're totally going next year.