I thought we were doing pretty well. When I asked Mac, “What does Easter mean to you?” He replied, “That is when Jesus died and came home” (and I liked his conception of home). There was no mention of the Easter bunny or candy or any of the values Walgreens encourages us to uphold with our wallets and diminishing sanity. Pangs of panic, however, started to surface as I worried Mac might accuse an intruder of leaving the basket of sugar and coloring books on granddad’s table Easter morning. In an effort to rebalance childhood and allow the drugstore employees to breathe a sigh of relief that I might be good for a Cadbury egg after all, I stopped by the library to pick up a book about our long eared friend, the one not present during biblical times but has dug himself and his eggs a place in history despite the absence. The story must have stuck, because when Mac went to bed Saturday evening, after finishing the police badge he made in case of a holiday uprising, he turned to me and said, “Make sure the rabbit doesn’t take my badge.” Sunday morning came. We rose at 6am. The rabbit proved himself not be a kleptomaniac and we progressed through the familiar holiday sequence only distinguishable by the presence of a rabbit, turkey, or tree. And when it was all over, we were left with a mom, dad, and two little boys that didn’t have time to go to church or our neighborhood Easter Parade or start our own little family traditions because we were too busy with time-outs and “hurry up and get in the car” to remember or celebrate the holiness of the day. Perhaps next year we will go to Alaska.
Leave a Comment so far
Leave a comment
Playground Uprising 