Easter was ten days ago, right? So it’s over, way over, or as they say in Boston, “Ovah!” Well, not here, not yet. The Easter Bunny has yet to leave the building. Sam just can’t bear to let him hop down the bunny trail towards the interstate. I’m probably a co-conspirator, too, at this point.
Today Sam was all rarin’ to go for yet another Easter egg hunt in the backyard, so we did. I was reluctant at first to dig out the eggs I had already packed away, but then I had an epiphany, “Why the heck not?” What’s the harm in celebrating Easter with a three-year-old after it has become passe for the rest of the world grounded in reality? It sure beats building with Legos, transforming the couch into a fire station, or breaking out the dreaded Lincoln Logs. (I am the one who dreads them, he sure doesn’t.) It was one of those “stop and smell the roses” kind of moments, only the roses were plastic eggs from the Dollar Store filled with Goldfish. You see, yours truly had polished off the leftover candy, right down to the last chocolate mousse Peep, just so they wouldn’t go stale, of course. That would be Peep abuse.
So we had an Easter Egg hunt. I’m quite sure we looked quite calendar-challenged out there in the front lawn, scampering around holding the tell-tale Easter baskets in our hands. The funniest part is that Sam is now so sophisticated in his Easter egg prowess that he has it down to a system — he likes to hide the eggs himself and then hunt for them himself. He’s a oneman Easter-egg-hunt-band, and I’m just there for the photo ops, much to his chagrin. Oh, I also get to fill the eggs with the Goldfish, sort of like being the Easter Bunny’s own private elf.
Today’s foray will probably be what I remember best about this Easter, which is ironic since it was technically no longer Easter. We can always use another dose of hope and the promise of new life, though, can’t we?. Pretty soon he won’t want to be seen with me in public, let alone on the front lawn carrying a dainty little Easter basket.
LibbY
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