The Mother of the Easter Bunny

On Sunday morning, I woke my children to take them to church.  There are only three services I require them all to sit through every year:  Christmas Eve, Easter, and Youth Sunday.  I have otherwise exempted my twelve-year-old son from church attendance except for ‘tween programming, which he happens to enjoy.

When I woke the boys on Easter morning, Little Man popped right up—it was a special day and not just because it was Easter.  (I am expressly forbidden from discussing why here or in any social media venue—kids can be so temperamental.)  My ‘tween did not pop up.  He grumbled.  He grumbled when I called him a second time, he grumbled while he dressed, he grumbled over orange juice, he grumbled in the van, and he grumbled as we walked into the church.

We came through the double doors and into the Sunday school lobby.  There was a young adult leader standing there who greeted us and asked my daughter and ‘tween if they intended to help with the Easter egg hunt.  My ‘tween immediately perked up, it was an opportunity to evade the boredom waiting for him in the church sanctuary.

“Please, may I?” he begged.

My daughter was initially reluctant to have her younger brother help with the effort because it was officially a youth group project and youth group has been her territory for the last two years.  She caved realizing they really did need the help; few others had arrived early to assist in the effort.

After the service, I collected Little Man from the classrooms in the church basement for the egg hunt. As we lined up, someone called to me, “Your son makes a fine Easter Bunny.”  I looked around and vaguely recognized the form beneath the frumpy bunny suit hopping across the street with a line of knee-high children following, baskets swinging excitedly.

He did make a fine Easter Bunny.

Okay, so it wasn’t the Nobel Prize, but I was proud anyway.  I think his sister was, too.

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(Yes, I got his permission before publishing the images.)

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