This year, Easter celebrations promised little out of the ordinary. As usual, my husband was selling stuff to people in superhero costumes and to those who use shoe polish to cover up male-pattern baldness.
But the day before—on Easter Eve—Vivian and William, now ten years old, declared their disbelief in the Easter Bunny.
I texted my mom:
I gave in to their chocolate demands before the tension escalated.
As a parent, I approach Easter like I do Advent and Christmas: last minute, low key, and likely less religious-y than it should be. My logic is something like this: (1) If I ignore the holiday, it won’t exist. Something like a tree falling in the forest, but I tend to ignore that analogy too because I don’t really understand it. (2) If I wait long enough to buy things for the holiday-du-jour, the things will go on sale. Ergo, I will save money. Of course, this logic is quickly dismissed by burning gas to get to four supermarkets. No matter.
Sunday morning came. My husband had gone to hock dead people’s stuff at the flea market. My kids woke me up.
“Can we go hunt for the eggs that you left us?” they asked.
“Do I have to get up?”
“No, you can stay in bed.”
My daughter woke me up. Again. “Can you come downstairs?”
“Can’t I sleep longer?”
“Oh.” This parenting gig was hard.
My daughter pulled the blankets off of me. She knew that the only thing I liked less than getting out of bed was being cold.
I climbed downstairs.
“We did an Easter Egg hunt for you! You have to find 28 eggs.”
I fake smiled, imagining hunting for eggs until Christmas. I looked wearily toward the dishwasher.
“Can you plug in the kettle for me?” I asked. Tea. Must have tea.
I kicked an egg.
“Open it!” Vivian said.
I’d forgotten where William was at this point.
“Open it!” she repeated.
I opened the plastic egg. I saw a tiny handwritten note, printed in Grade 5 penmanship.
“There’re 27 more!”
And so there were.
Who needs the Easter Bunny?