ON A RARE TRIP to the mall a few weeks ago, the Rock was entranced by a gigantic, blow-up Easter egg. Two overscale inanimate bunnies with paint brushes in hand stood on ladders next to it, pretending to paint the inflated structure. But the truly incredible feature of this display was inside the Fabergé-like opening of the egg. The Easter Bunny himself (or, at least, one of his surrogates) sat inside on a bunny bench, waving and beckoning to any children he could see. The Rock pleaded, she cajoled, she (briefly, thank God) tantrumed. The Cruelest Mother in the World said “No.”
As ever with my children, their reactions could not be less similar. The Rock’s stalwart enthusiasm for the E.B. (as he was known in my house growing up) was a far cry from the River’s first encounter with a giant, terrifying bunny.
When he was a baby, we started going away for Easter. This produced no small amount of tension with my mother, who, for a non-religious person of Christian heritage, places a whole lot of importance on Easter, especially the part that involves chocolate, jellybeans and presents presented in baskets. Even so, we were determined to have our coastal getaway, and off we went to a favorite seaside hotel.
The inn celebrated Easter in family-friendly style, complete with an egg hunt and, you guessed it, a giant bunny. He found us first at breakfast in the restaurant, and his too-sudden appearance sent the River (more high strung then than now) into spasms of crying. Had he not been trapped in a high chair (not to mention still too young to walk) I’m quite sure he would have climbed under the table to escape from the Rodent of Unusual Size. Eventually, the foul creature left, and the boy recovered, enough to accept a wave from said bunny later that day.
Now, my kids both like rabbits, real ones, chocolate ones, even hyperbolic ones. We returned to the mall a week later (the trips there really are rare, I promise, but it’s the site of our nearest Apple Store, and I’ve been having technical difficulties that only a visit to the Genius Bar could solve.) This time, the River was with us. As before, the Rock was mesmerized by the giant bunny. Since we failed to do Santa pictures last year, and the River was game, I gave in, and pictures were taken.
We’ll celebrate Easter this year by dying our own eggs (meaning, from our own chickens) and biting the heads off some chocolate bunnies. (My kids, like kids across America this time of year, I suspect, are begging for real ones, but we’re not biting. Aren’t a dog and a cat and horses and chickens enough animals for one family?) Meanwhile, having seen the surrogate in the mall, the Rock is now concerned about the mechanics of Easter basket delivery. I don’t plan on catching the giant rabbit when he mysteriously drops his loot, but then, as the Rock likes to say, in a voice fraught with the joy of unknown possibilities, “You never know….” Anything can happen.
How about you? Does your family’s Easter celebration (if there is one) involve giant bunnies of any kind, or do you, like the little River, fear the rabbit? Is it all about eggs and chocolate? Do tell.
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