Looking back to when I was a kid during Easter, I realize the lengths my parents went to pull the wool over my head … and how willing I was to go along with everything. I mean, think about it – we would spend an afternoon painting Easter eggs, and then I would be told that an Easter bunny would come around, take those eggs, and hide them in my yard. Why on Earth couldn’t the Easter bunny just paint the eggs him (or her) self, and then hide them. Certainly, this bunny did not match up to Santa Claus in the least. However, for some reason, I never questioned this, and I still believed in the Easter bunny.
On Easter, when I was young, it rained, so the “Easter Bunny” had to hide the eggs inside the house. I was freaked out by this. How in tarnations (yeah, I used the word tarnations … what are you gonna do about it?) did the bunny get inside in the first place? I was concerned about a bunny getting in the house, but never once concerned about a big fat man with a large bag coming into my house every year. Still, after finding the eggs and Easter baskets filled with chocolate, my fear for the bunny subsided.
But probably the biggest “fear” I had on Easter Sunday was the fear of what kind of suit my mom was going to make me wear to church that day. Far and away my least favorite of these was the tan 3-piece suit she made me put on, on more than one occasion. I looked like a giant pound-cake. Not only that, but the cheap polyester material that the suit was made of, always made sitting through church and Sunday school nearly impossible. I dreaded it. My mom always tried to bribe me by taking me across the street afterwards to Davis’s Trading Post, where I would have to make the tough decision on purchasing baseball cards, Mork and Mindy cards, or a Reggie candy bar. Ah, the memories.
I know, I know – I’ve totally talked about the “bad” side of Easter … not going into the true meaning. But seriously, can you forgive me? I was just a little kid at the time.
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