I’m kind of a grump when it comes to the Easter Bunny. At a very early age, my mother was instrumental in curing me of that holiday myth. I was around 6 years old. A few of my friends in the neighborhood were over and we were getting ready to decorate eggs in our kitchen. While we were all waiting for the boiled eggs to chill down, my mother motioned for me to follow her out into the hallway. She put her hands on my shoulders, leaned in and said, “I want you to know something. There is no stupid Easter Bunny. It is just one more stupid American tradition that gives kids a bunch of candy.” (I should also mention that she hated Halloween.) She was angry now, and said, “It’s when Christ died on the cross for our sins. Americans always have to make religious holidays into something commercial. So, just remember, Christ on the cross, no Easter Bunny. Now. Go back to your friends, and don’t tell them what I said.”
So when I tell you this story, imagine a wide-eyed, curly-haired, skinny kid looking up at her mother who had a very thick Mexican accent. (I often had to translate to my friends what she was saying.) I accepted what my mom said. I had already become suspicious about the whole bunny story, but wasn’t quite ready to give up on an Easter basket full of chocolate. The hardest thing for me that day was going back into that room. Would they be able to tell what had happened by just looking at me? Would they pry out the ugly truth, burst into tears, then run home to their moms crying? My God. I would forever be known as the kid who killed the Easter Bunny. My mother, well, she would have to leave town.Fortunately, they barely looked up at me. Everyone was discussing what dye colors they were going to use. Soon, I was also in the throes of decorating and looking forward to the upcoming Easter hunt. By no means did my childhood end that day. I still had an incredible imagination. I don’t know why my Mom thought it was necessary to burst my bubble. She didn’t do it to be malicious. A childhood living in a little village during the Mexican Revolution had made her a realist. I suspect a lot of kids, deep down, just go along with the stories our parents tell us. Perhaps, it’s the children who are leading their parents on. The truth is: all a kid really wants is for the candy to keep coming.
PS: I never repeated to my friends what Momma told me that day.