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Early Sunday morning, I hid 150 Easter eggs in my backyard for the grandkids. Took me the better part of an hour, including the part where my wife came out and offered important advice.

Her: "Dammit, Robert. They're children. Get off the roof."

Me: "Just five more."

When I wasn't quick enough, she pushed the ladder over and went back inside. Eventually I was able to attract the attention of a couple of passing joggers. For a handful of Jolly Ranchers they put the ladder back up.

Even with the roof off limits, hiding the eggs is easy. Thanks to a certain hobby involving cannon fire that the wife also has a lot of advice about, our backyard has a million nooks and crannies in it.

It also helped that there wasn't a real egg in the bunch. The plastic eggs contained candy, cash and promissory notes. Whatever else Easter might be for other people, for my grandkids it's all about the loot.

They gather on the back porch with their baskets. When the signal is given to begin the hunt, it's like watching Vikings leap out of longships.

It took my nine grandchildren — ranging in age from 13 to 1 — less than 10 minutes to find about a hundred bucks worth of Easter treasure.

The hunt was called when my oldest grandson asked, "Papa, can we take apart the bowling ball stack to look for eggs?"

With that the women in the family herded the violent little raiders back inside where they immediately fell to squabbling over the treasure.

The pillaging never comes out even. One grandkid always finds more eggs. Another gets most of the chocolate, while a third rakes in a larger share of cash than the others.

#1 "No fair! You got all the gum.

#2 "I'll trade you my nickels for your dimes. See? They're bigger."

#3 "This note says, 'Good for shooting a witch, a troll, or … what's a Republican?' "

I told you all of that to tell you this: After every celebration comes a crash. Birthday, Christmas, Halloween, Easter, July Fourth — doesn't matter. They all end with an emotional letdown.

In our house this letdown is called PTFD, or Post-Traumatic Fun Disorder. It manifests itself various ways, including sulking, lethargy, boredom, and the occasional bout of "There's nothing to do now!"

Kids don't handle PTFD well. They drape themselves over furniture and stare off into the distance, as if all the joy in life has been sucked out by the high they just experienced. Life has lost its savor now that all the eggs, presents, explosives and candy have been used up.

I can relate. When we come back to the ranch from hours of blowing $#@*! up on Tavaputs, Sonny and I always suffer from PTFD. I take a long nap. Sometimes Sonny gets drunk. Everyone handles PTFD in their own way.

A nap resets my internal Loon-O-Meter. When I wake up, I'm recharged and ready (if not injured) to go again. If Sonny is still passed out, I draw on his face with a Sharpie, or put ants in his nose.

I tried explaining my PTFD therapy to the grandkids, but they're having none of it. Naps are for when you're being punished. Only boring people take naps voluntarily.

Sometimes the only thing you can do to counter PTFD is to keep the party going. On Sunday, I let out the rumor that there just might be eggs on the roof. It worked.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley. Find his past columns at http://www.sltrib.com/lifestyle/kirby