Every season has its wonders and its quirks. With each season that rolls in, I make strong statements about why this is the best season. Fall has the simplicity that comes when the days are shorter and the nights are dark and crisp. It has the smell of fires in a fireplace and the promise of upcoming holidays. Winter has the coziness of snow and hunkering down under an electric blanket at night. Well, I live in Florida, so that snow thing is a joke. We get a lot of people from Wisconsin who drive kinda slow. That’s always fun. Summer has long days, and no early morning deadlines. The kids are home. The pools are welcoming. The time spent together is enticing. It represents relaxation and togetherness. But Spring, well Spring is special, too. It has its own little bowl of potpourri, like Jasmine and honeysuckle. It has berries like strawberries and blueberries. And there’s the IRS. Who can fail to acknowledge the fun of doing one’s taxes? And then there’s Easter.
The Easter Bunny was always a character I didn’t completely understand. An oversized bunny that leaves candy hidden in your house. I mean, I can get my mind around Santa Claus, because at least he’s a dude that has a house in the north pole and a life outside his holiday magic. But where does the Easter Bunny live? How can I trust a man-sized rabbit who lives in a secret location? I just don’t know. We never made a huge deal out of Easter, though we did do the baskets/candy thing on Sunday morning before church. One year, when I was probably 12 or so, I came downstairs in my house on Marston Road and rounded the corner to gaze upon the wonders that would await me on the hearth. For the last 9 years, there had been a basket there for me on Easter. This year, there wasn’t. Wha? Huh? My brother and I stood there. Stunned. No basket. No Easter Bunny. He didn’t come. Did we offend PETA? Had we misbehaved in some way? Of course, by this point, we totally knew our parents were him, so we went straight to the source.
“Hey, what’s the deal?”
“Oh, well. We just figured you were too old. It’s over,” my parents announced. Without a word of prior warning, the Easter Bunny was dead to us…and us to him. Well, huh. So I went to church chocolateless and with just a little less spring in my step. And that was that.
I can’t complain, though it totally sounds like I am, because I do virtually nothing for my own children on Easter. The grandparents go overboard and I don’t want my kids to think the Easter Bunny is made of money. So I do nothing. I think it all shakes out fine.
In the spirit of the season, the Informinator sent me a picture of her firstborn with two other children sitting in the lap of a very unnatural looking creature. I will post it as Easter gets closer. If you have photos that will crack the world up, do send them along. I’d love to post a few. missy at snappshots dot com.
Snappshots.com 