Can I Really Kill Of The Easter Bunny As Well?
It came as a surprise when Kurt asked me casually the other day if the Easter Bunny was still coming on Sunday.
I knew it was a test.
You see, I thought that his childhood had been jettisoned out of the window some time ago; at about the same time as he was caught running through Darling Harbour in a rabbit onesie and off his face.
Maybe there was more to that rabbit onesie than I realized?
I assumed that when he made it clear that he was too old to walk WITH me in public, join us at the dinner table or abide by any of our house rules, he would understand that the Easter Bunny would stop coming.
It’s not like he even likes chocolate. The old man eats all his eggs when he thinks that no-one is watching.
But Kurt has never forgiven me destroying his childhood when I told him about Father Christmas. Which is why, I can only assume, he never dared ask me to confirm or deny the existence of EB.
The traditional Easter Egg Hunt will be a bit tricky this year, anyway, what with the courtyard and the Princess Spoodle’s knack for sniffing out chocolate like her mother a truffle pig. We still haven’t had the heart to tell her that it could kill her.
Obviously God isn’t a dog.
And I thought that kids hated double standards, and relied on their parents for the truth. Our kids hated it when we told them the definition of little white lies and haven’t believed a word we’ve said ever since. I suppose that the one about ‘biscuit cancer’ was taking it a bit far but I was worried about Kurt’s weight.
Although they still don’t categorise the story of Father Christmas as a little white lie. In their eyes, it was an injustice that they have never forgiven me for.
He still gives me that knowing look of crippling disappointment as he hangs his Christmas stocking up.
But I haven’t stopped the stockings or Rudolph’s carrot and my wine so there’s no real reason to stop the boiled eggs with smiley faces and the chocolate overkill, is there? We may not be religious, but it’s still a tradition passed down from our parents, isn’t it?
If he wants to hold onto those last sacred vestiges of his childhood, who am I to take them away?
More importantly, do I really need the blood of the Easter Bunny on my hands as well as The Tooth Fairy and Father Christmas?