The Limits of Magical Creatures

I’ve had a bit of low-level anxiety this April about Easter.

Growing up, the Easter Bunny used to always bring me a new outfit, suitable for wearing to church that day. It was a lovely tradition that I planned to continue with my own children. Early on, in fact, the girls did get cute little dresses. Except that they had very strong opinions about their clothing preferences, and finding a dress that they were willing to wear was a challenge. In fact, it was too challenging for the Easter Bunny. For the first several years of the girls’ life, the Easter Bunny made all sorts of slacker moves, like handing out the exact same stuffed bunnies and chicks from previous years, because it turns out that if you put something away in August, toddlers forget that those furry items ever existed by the following spring, so they greet them like new. And yes, that sounds sneaky and clever, sure, but then the Easter Bunny would totally fail Easter with loser moves like gifting M with a large white chocolate bunny when it turns out she doesn’t like white chocolate anymore. Not as bad as that idiot Santa Claus, who once



gifted J with a venus flytrap plant inspired by a family trip to see friends in “Little Shop of Horrors.” You would think he’d be magical enough to know that she’d been having nightmares about flesh-eating plants for weeks, but it took her until the new year before she finally talked to her parents about it.

Anyway, once the Easter Bunny gave up on dresses, he had several good years in a row by focusing on outdoor toys: little things like sidewalk chalk, jump ropes, plus bigger items like scooters, bicycles that the parents would have bough eventually. But this year the girls are fully supplied, and they’ve outgrown the gimmicky outdoor stuff. In an effort to help a bunny out, I kept asking about Easter wishes. And the responses were not helpful. The Easter Bunny knows how we feel about cell phones, is simply to small to deliver a trampoline, and does not feel comfortable transporting puppies. Finally, J had a suggestion:

“What I really, really wish for, is just that the Easter Bunny could find our missing box of Easter decorations.”

Crap. In years past, I would go into the storage area and pull out a few items that the Easter Bunny might need, like some plastic eggs, a bit of fake grass, and a couple of baskets. And then I’d drag the boxes with the rest of our Easter stuff out for the girls to enjoy. This year, some of the stuff is missing: a large collection of plastic eggs, a plastic egg-holding platter, a small Thomas the Tank Engine Easter train, and, most sorely missed, a fluffy chick who sings the Chicken Dance song. I have no idea where this stuff went. I might have thrown away the plastic eggs, but I never would have just gotten rid of the Chicken Dance Chick. And I have visions of setting some of these items aside, but did that happen a month ago, or two years ago? I have no idea. When J said that the box of plastic gewgaws was her fondest Easter wish, I went straight home and tore the house apart. M helped. Then Cute W came home and helped, too. No luck.

So, not only do I not have a “headline item” of Easter fun, but I feel really quite confident that there’s not enough magic to make these items appear.

I was feeling pretty bad about it, really. I gave J as much advanced notice as I could manage to do without giving her too much Bunny information.  And I’m still hoping that St. Anthony will gift me with a dream-vision tonight. But chances feel pretty slim.

I made up for it, though, in a festive egg-decorating party. Last night we had a snacky-style dinner and collected tons of crafty supplies. Then we blew out some eggs so that we could keep them (this Youtube video helped, and it was surprisingly easy). We decoupaged and painted and glittered until everyone was paint-stained and punchy from egg-decorating exhaustion. Hopefully J will have fond memories of the evening to fill up that space left by the lack of a chicken singing the Chicken Dance song.

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