And then Jack had baseball practice at 8:30 this morning. And he likes it, so we were all there, like idiots, blinking into the sun with sheer exhaustion written clearly on our faces.
It was, to say the least, a long day.
Then, tonight at dinner, just about when I was praying everyone would go to sleep so I could, too:
Jack: Think we’re too old for the Easter bunny to come?
Caroline: No way.
Jack: How do you know?
Caroline: Well, I’m ten. And besides, the leprechauns came. They all know each other – Santa, the leprechauns, the tooth fairies, the Easter bunny. One comes, they all come. It’s like a rule.
Jack: Yeah, I think you’re right. Good.
Caroline: Yeah, and remember he does that funny thing with the string? So I call getting to follow my string first in the morning.
"That funny thing with the string." Damn you, Family Fun magazine, which gave me so many cute ideas TEN YEARS AGO. Damn you, adorable idea to have the Easter bunny lead each child to his or her basket with colored yarn, under tables, through doors, inside, outside, around trees. Damn me, who has had to improve on the labyrinth year after year until the children practically have to ride twenty miles sitting backwards on a lame donkey to find their baskets, hidden somewhere near the Holy Grail.
I looked at my husband, silently imploring him to take over the Easter bunny duties. He looked at me, silently telling me to suck it up because normal people don’t create such a hell for themselves.
The kids ran upstairs. And, with every non-mommy cell in my body, I wanted to call them back downstairs. And this is what I wanted to say:
Children. Let’s be serious. Let’s just PRETEND there’s a giant bunny that magically knows who celebrates Easter. Okay? So there’s a giant, anti-Semitic bunny, and he sure can hop, because he hops all over the time zones finding those people and delivering candy that, oddly, is readily available at Target. And the drug store. And the grocery store. Because really, starting in February, your exact baskets are sitting in front of you every single time we go shopping.
So the bunny gets to our house. And somehow he bypasses our alarm system. And then, are you still with me? The giant bunny takes yarn and weaves it through our house? Seriously, do you really think he does that for everyone? How can he possibly have that much time? And how can he possibly know our house so well that he finds the really good hiding spots? How can he possibly have that much yarn? Where does he keep it? He doesn't have a sled, you know.
And really kids, I’ve been terrified of kidnappers since the day you were born. Do you really think the giant bunny could hop through the entire house and not trip the zillion motion sensors I have everywhere? Really?
And the dog, who chases the SCENT of a squirrel, just turns a blind eye to the giant bunny hopping through our house in the middle of the night?
And how does he lock the door behind him? You know I don’t give out keys.
Grow up, people.
For the love of God, Caroline, you just turned ten. Get with the program. Your friends are going to laugh at you.
And Jack? Dude. You’re bright. Give me a break. At this rate, you’ll never get out of first grade.
Not that I want you kids to grow up too fast. Not that I want to steal any of your innocent childhoods. Not that I won’t love that innocence in, oh, say a week, when I’m not so flippin' tired.
It's just that...well...can this Easter bunny catch a break, just once? Like this year? Like right now, so I can go to bed?
You and I both know that I didn’t say any of that.
You and I both know that I’m about to get in the car to go buy complementary yet unique and colorful balls of yarn.
You and I both know this post will self-destruct ten seconds after midnight so my children will never know that I was stunned by the naiveté that might just be hiding serious (and probably genetic, from the maternal side) mental disorders.
It’s gonna be a late night.
Does anyone have a corkscrew?