As the first purple crocuses poke through the cold ground, and pastel baskets and plastic eggs appear in supermarket aisles, I shiver with dread. For I have a secret …
From the tips of his long, felt ears to the bottom of his oversized paws, I hate the Easter Bunny, and I would be thrilled (and relieved) if he hippity-hopped right past our house this Easter, so that I can avoid my children’s knowing eyes.
It’s hard enough to keep the innocence of holiday magic alive for today’s sophisticated (some say jaded) kids. At Christmas, ubiquitous, and sometimes bedraggled, Santas around every corner inspire glimmers of doubt from smart kids everywhere.
“Mom, I learned in school today that there are approximately two billion kids in the world. How does Santa get to all of them in 36 hours?” my growing kids ask pointedly.
Or, “Mom, kids in China don’t celebrate Christmas. Doesn’t Santa love Buddhist kids?”
Or, “Mom, did Santa buy this Wii at Walmart? The tag is still on it.”
Yet somehow, we manage to fumble through. I fulfill my role as protector of childhood hope by offering weak, but impassioned explanations. The inquisitors play their role, by taking me at my word, in part (no doubt) because it is profitable for them, but also because, like all of us, they still want to believe in magic – that miracles can happen.
But even with a credulous audience, don’t we lose just a bit of credibility as parents when we swear that an oversized rabbit delivers baskets of jellybeans? It’s like putting raisins in a Halloween treat bag; our kids might say an obligatory “thank you,” but deep down, they know we can do better.
And we can. I believe the “Oschter Haws” or Easter Hare is a quaint tradition out of step with our high-tech world. While his German roots date back to the 1500s, he didn’t made his first American appearance until about 200 years later among the Pennsylvania Dutch, who believed he laid brightly colored eggs for good children while they slept. He is a descendant of another mythological hare, who was an ancient pagan symbol of the fertility goddess, Eastre and a rather lurid association for Christianity’s most holy holiday, don’t you think?
Not that Santa seems a natural match for celebrating the birth of a Savior, either, but at least he’s generous and jolly, and well,…not creepy. The tooth fairy is a tough sell, too, but at least she has the decency not to make public appearances.
The bunny, however, is everywhere this time of year, and yet he never looks the same. Sometimes he’s a clown with a greasepaint face, a slippery black nose and two-dimensional whiskers. Other times, his head is a sinister furry, globe, embellished with vacant eyes and a false, cloth smile. His fur is white at one sighting; then gray the next, or occasionally an unsettling pastel pink. And as my younger sister, Kathy faces years of hosting Easter Bunny visits for her young brood, she raises another important question: “Is it a boy or a girl?”
Even on his worst day at the mall, Santa is still a Caucasian man in a white beard and a red suit – no worse than your most eccentric great-uncle. But the big bunny is a shape-shifter and far better suited to be a comic book villain than the symbol of Easter. In fact, in Australia, where rabbits are considered to be pesky rodents, there is a movement to force the Easter Bunny into retirement and replace him with the Easter Bilby. Australians can now fill their baskets with bilby-shaped candy that showcases the endangered marsupial’s long-ears, pointed claws and rat-like snout.
Hmmm…I wish them lots of luck with that because, in fairness, being an Easter icon is a no-win proposition. Santa is a tough act to follow, and his role in celebrating Christmas at least makes sense; after all, he brings gifts to Jesus’ birthday party. But what booty of candy could possibly measure up to the miracle that’s being celebrated at Easter? In that sense, the bunny or the bilby or any other Easter “front man” is doomed for failure.
So I admit, on that point, he gains an ounce of my affection for his underdog status and the fact that every year, he takes the basket of plastic grass he’s been given and fulfills his fate – delivering colored eggs, sugarcoated marshmallow chicks, and hollow, chocolate replicas of himself to a vaguely grateful and somewhat skeptical fan base.
But my empathy ends there. In the end, he better hop down that bunny trail as quick as a hare before my kids start asking too many questions.
