I had forgotten how huge Easter is for kids. As an adult who couldn’t tell you the difference between Palm Sunday and Good Friday (besides the obvious fact that one is on Sunday and one is on Friday), Easter was likely to pass by without my even noticing it. In fact, one year I spent Easter in Paris – a city that apparently observes the holiday in much more obvious ways than most American cities, namely by shutting everything down. Cafes were closed. Museums were dark. Shops were shuttered. My traveling companion and I couldn’t figure out what was going on until we finally realized it was Easter. We were forced to spend the day doing outdoor tourist activities such as strolling Père Lachaise Cemetery and going up in the Eiffel Tower. Sounds lovely, doesn’t it? I’m sure it would have been had it not been freezing cold and snowing like crazy. Not even a view of the City of Light from the Eiffel Tower is romantic in a blizzard.
Easter apathy wasn’t always the norm for me. As a kid, I was a big Easter fan. This is a photo of me at an Easter egg hunt when I was around 6 years old. Maybe I’m just squinting into the sun and through the piece of hair that needs to be brushed out of my eyes, but it looks like I was probably ready to call it a day.
As a fashion aside, I feel compelled to state that, despite what appears to be evidence to the contrary, I’ve never owned or worn a lot of pink. I must have been decked out in it specifically for the occasion. Please note that while very pink, my outfit is in no way frilly – a simple pair of shorts, matching knee socks and a pastel striped top . . . girly and festive, yet still casual and understated. I think it was working, especially since it coordinated with my hot pink Easter basket. You may notice the bright red watch that does not match the pink ensemble particularly well. That was my ever-present Snoopy watch. I wore it constantly and did not care if it matched or not. While I didn’t mind if my watch clashed, I wouldn’t be caught dead without carefully coordinated hair accessories – thus, the pink pigtail holders.
Now that I look back on it, the Easter when I was six was probably the last Easter that was all pastel pink, fuzzy bunnies and fluffy chicks for me. Yes, Easter took a darker turn when I was seven. It all started with an innocent neighborhood Easter egg hunt. All of the kids had been hunting for quite a while and there was one egg missing. Excitement was high and I was running a little too fast around a corner. I tripped on a big rock, went flying through the air and came down on the front bumper of beat up old car, cutting my face open right underneath my left eye. My mom was across the street working in our yard and I vividly recall watching the expression on her face change from mild concern to horror as I got closer and she saw all the blood. Which, incidentally, totally ruined my adorable little denim jumpsuit. I’m still upset about that, never mind the scar, which is still slightly visible on my face thirty years later. I’ve spent a lifetime having some version of the following conversation with doctor after doctor:
“Wow, who stitched up that cut under your eye?”
“Um, I don’t know. Some ER doctor when I was a kid.”
“He did a terrible job.”
“Great. Thanks for noticing.”
Well, the seven year old me did not know good stitches from bad stitches. All I knew is that I LOVED them. I loved the bad-ass stamp of approval having a big red gash bound with mean looking, heavy black stitches gave me. As the youngest kid on my street and one of the only girls, I fought uphill battles to be cool enough and tough enough. My stitches won the war. I was cool. I was tough. I was in. Thus began my lifelong fascination with stitches and a very long phase (painfully long for my parents, I’m sure) where the only thing I would draw was people with red crayon cuts on their faces, crisscrossed with black crayon stitches. I made self-portraits and gave myself stitches. I drew pictures of my family with stitches. I drew Santa with stitches, Leprechauns with stitches and especially Easter Bunnies with stitches.
Now that I have a child, I am rediscovering the fun of Easter. And, in a perfect example of the apple not falling far from the tree, Chester is putting his own dark spin on the holiday. On the Friday before Easter, his preschool did an Easter egg hunt. Excitement was building throughout the week and on Thursday night, a note was sent home to make sure each child brought some sort of basket or bag for egg collecting. I realized the only basket I had was the one I (and by “I” I mean the Easter Bunny) was planning on leaving for Chester on Easter morning. As we drove home, I wondered out loud what we could pull together as a basket. Chester had it all worked out.
“Mommy, I’m going to use my skull.”
(Brief moment of confusion)
“You mean the skull bag you used for Halloween trick or treating that went with your skeleton costume?”
Yes, that was what he meant. Now, I must admit, as a fan of skulls (both as a vital part of the skeletal system and as a motif) this pleased me, but both the mom and Easter Bunny in me wondered if we shouldn’t do something to Easter it up a bit. I came up with an idea to fashion bunny ears and a tail out of paper, markers and cotton, and affix them to the skull with safety pins. Upon hearing my idea, Chester looked at me like I was a complete idiot and said, “No, Mommy! I like it just the way it is.” When I asked Chester’s teacher where I should put his “Easter basket,” she gave me an odd look and motioned to a corner. I loved setting Chester’s skull basket down in the middle of the mountain of pastel wicker baskets. It looked happy there – exuding a Tim Burton-esque vibe. I was overcome with an urge to draw an Easter Bunny with stitches.
Speaking of the Easter Bunny, of all the things that made Easter one of my favorite holidays as a child (besides gory stitches, of course), my imagination was particularly captured by The Easter Bunny. I believed in him for much longer than I believed in Santa Claus. My dad is responsible for my deep and abiding faith in the Easter Bunny’s existence. He told great tales about how he once caught a glimpse of the Easter Bunny in our house as he was hiding my basket. According to my dad, the magical rabbit was tall – 7 or 8 feet at least – and white and had enormous feet that he enjoyed warming on the heater vents in our floor. I could have written all that off as silly stories, but the proof was in the carrots. Every year I left a plate full of carrots out for the Easter Bunny and every Easter morning I found them half-eaten. The remaining carrots were marked with telltale rabbit teeth marks. Proof positive! Bites out of Santa’s cookies? Obviously my dad could have done that. Two prominent front teeth marks on a carrot? That, my friends, is clearly the work of a giant white rabbit with cold feet.
I still believe the Easter Bunny exists. Actually, I KNOW the Easter Bunny exists. I also know for a fact that the Easter Bunny has cold feet. I know because I AM the Easter Bunny and I love it. I love picking out candy and fun little toys. I love putting it all together in a basket. I love hiding eggs and most of all, I love nibbling on carrots with only my two front teeth to create the marks that prove the Easter Bunny exists.
As Easter approached, Chester began asking probing questions like, “Where does the Easter Bunny live?” The answer to that, in case you were wondering is down the Bunny Trail. “Where is the Bunny Trail,” you ask? (Chester did too.) Nobody knows. Some theorize that the Easter Bunny lives and does his year-round Easter preparation on Easter Island. Maybe. Others, like the old animated TV classic, “Peter Cottontail,” suggest that he lives in April Valley. Perhaps. All we really know is that “down the Bunny Trail” is someplace mystical and magical and pastel.
Feeling quite pleased with my nonchalant and convincing answers to the Easter Bunny line of questioning, I reminded Chester that we needed to make sure to leave carrots out on Easter Eve. He seemed hesitant. My mind raced, “How could he be hesitant about leaving carrots out for the Easter Bunny?! How will I fulfill my Easter-Bunny-proving, carrot-nibbling duties if Chester doesn’t want to leave carrots out?!” I tried to stay cool . . .
“Oh, Chester, we definitely need to leave some carrots out for the Easter Bunny.”
“Are you sure, Mommy?”
“Yes, I’m sure. What if he gets hungry and needs a snack?”
“He can go to the store and get something.”
“No way, he doesn’t have time for that. He has millions of baskets and eggs to deliver.”
“OK, Mommy, if you say so . . . . . . You don’t think we’ll have the same problem we had with the reindeer, do you?”
Yes, Santa’s reindeer nearly ruined my favorite Easter tradition and destroyed proof of the Easter Bunny for my young child. You see, Chester was leaving cookies out for Santa on Christmas Eve and very considerately thought the reindeer would need a snack too. We were at my parents’ house and Chester and grandma decided on a plate of carrots, placed on the kitchen floor, near the cat food bowls. On Christmas morning, Chester woke up and raced upstairs to see if Santa had come. Lo and behold, not only were the cookies and carrots mostly eaten, but there was even more definitive proof that Santa’s reindeer had, in fact, been in the house. One of my parents’ many cats had thrown up a pile of barely digested food, squarely behind the plate of carrots. Chester stopped just short of stepping in the pile of brown, expanded, soggy cat food bits. His eyes widened and he took off like a shot, running through the house, yelling “Grandma! Grandma! Santa’s reindeer pooped on your floor!”
I assured Chester that we wouldn’t have the same issues with the Easter Bunny and his carrots.
“Oh no, buddy, I’m pretty sure the Easter Bunny is housed trained.”
“Are you sure? Because I don’t want him pooping on our floor. Guh-ross!”
“I’m sure. The Easter Bunny knows better than that.”
“Yeah, he wouldn’t do that . . . “
Whew, my carrot nibbling plan was saved . . .
“. . . He wouldn’t do that because he’s not a REAL bunny. He’s a person in a costume.”
What!?!?! I clearly had my Easter Bunny work cut out for me. I spent the week psyching myself up. My shopping was focused and intense. I carefully hid the Easter goods. I tucked Chester in on Easter Eve and waited. I was tired, but I waited. I was really, really, excruciatingly sleepy, but I waited some more. When I was sure Chester was sound asleep, I crept downstairs and began my super-sneaky egg hiding, meticulous basket assembling and finally, the finishing touch, painstaking carrot nibbling.
Easter morning came extremely early because Chester was very excited. He raced downstairs and found some eggs. Next, he saw his basket and shrieked with delight. Then, here it comes . . . he noticed the half eaten plate of carrots and gasped. Upon closer inspection he summoned me over, “Mommy! Mommy! Come here! Look! Rabbit teeth marks! The Easter Bunny was really here!” Worked like a charm. I recommend the teeth marks – they are easy, effective and much less messy than a pile of regurgitated cat food.
After much egg hunting and basket exploration, the extremely satisfied and very tired Easter Bunny took a nap on the couch while Chester watched “Peter Cottontail.” Here comes Peter Cottontail, hoppin' down the bunny trail, hippity, hoppity, Easter's on its way . . . Zzzzzzz . . .
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