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Hare-raising experiences with the Easter Bunny

Submitted by on Saturday, 11 April 2009 2 Comments

easter_bunnyThe problem with lying is keeping your tales straight.

Or, in this case, keeping your tails straight. All day today, Big Guy kept asking  and I kept ad-libbing about the Easter Bunny. It led to one colossal mistake – a lie that contradicted the others and wasn’t even vaguely plausible.

Mind you, Big Guy and holiday mythology have been on shaky ground since Christmas. He teetered the first time he encountered Claus last season, only to have a movie restore his belief.

Life’s been a little hectic lately, so I failed to foresee the slew of bunny questions looming. As a result, I made it up on the fly and dang near had to chew off my  leg to get out of the trap.

“Mommy, how does the Easter Bunny get into the house?”

How do you think our patio door got broken last spring, I thought. “He has a key. A magic carrot-shaped key that lets him get in everyone’s house,” I said.

“Mommy, how does he know if we’re sleeping? Does he have magic powers to see us like Santa does?”

He’s a holdover from the Bush administration and has all our houses wired, I thought. “He hops to a window and peaks in. If people still are up, no baskets.” I said.

“Mommy, have you ever seen the Easter bunny?”

Yes, skinned and gutted on Mawmaw’s counter after Pawpaw came back from a hunting trip, I thought. “I saw his fluffy little bunny tail as he hopped up the sidewalk after leaving here one year. He’s about my height and has a little wiggly pink nose.”

“Mommy, is the Easter Bunny real or a mascot?” Big Guy asked. He figured out toward the end of last season that the characters at the local baseball games aren’t “real” but are “mascots.” He hasn’t quite figured out that a mascot is merely a person in a suit, though I’m sure he’ll have that nailed by mid-summer.

Will you stop already? My brain hurts, I thought. “He’s a mascot,” I said.

Stupid, stupid, stupid Mommy! A mascot might be able to pull off the fluffy bunny tail, but how could one ever wiggle its nose? Big Guy is so going to wind up talking to his therapist about this one.

“But is he really real? Is Santa really real?”

Gulp. Only one possible way out of this one. “What do you think?”

“I think he’s fake. But I think Santa is real. But maybe the Easter Bunny’s real, too. I don’t know. I’ll see if he leaves me candy.”


His final query came about 10 as we walked home from the neighbors, his eyes darting furtively  in the dark, searching for but not wanting to see the Easter Bunny. Because if he saw him, he was screwed. No candy for you, kid!

“Mom, where does the Easter Bunny live?”

“I have no freakin’ clue,” I thought. “Interesting question. I’m not sure, but I’ll see if I can find out,” I said

So after the guys went to bed, I did what any honesty-challenged semi-techy mom would do: I googled it. Except this time, Google was no help because I couldn’t find a concensus.

My favorite response was in a comment to a blog post from a mom facing a similar dilemma. The Easter Bunny lives in paintings, and that’s how he gets into the house.

From a strategic standpoint, I liked that one. The guys  have watched “Blue skadoo” often enough to believe that humans and critters can jump in and out of artwork. Except we have no paintings in the house. That would leave me with trying to convince the guys that the Easter Bunny was a guest at my wedding.

Which might be worth a shot next year, if by chance Big Guy remembers the Easter Bunny is a mascot toting a magic carrot key.

Copyright 2009 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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  • Reno Martin said:

    I positively love your blog. You are a quick thinker on your feet! My children are grown and I love reliving those days when they were young through you.

  • Debra said:

    It was definitely an adventure! The best part was when Big Guy started talking in his sleep just as I was transporting the stash from my closet to the living room. Then the $&*# Batmobile toy started going off. “Turbo engaged! Turbo engaged!” Mine sure was from that point on.

    Luckily, he didn’t wake up fully until after I’d finished.

    “Mom, was that noise the Easter Bunny?”

    “No, it was me in the kitchen.”

    “Well, go to sleep so he’ll come.”

    “Sure thing, babes.”