I don’t really celebrate Easter, have never really talked to the kids about the Easter Bunny (one of the very many potentially devastating conversations occurring during childhood averted, please address your stern email to my butt) so they don’t really anticipate some giant-earred rabbit-thing to break into the house to commemorate the resurrection of Jesus Christ.
Why do I celebrate Christmas? Did you seriously just ask me that? ARE YOU A MONSTER? YOU ARE A MONSTER.
Anyway. Santa Bunny visited my mother’s house this year. Who? Santa Bunny. I made it up on the drive down to Easter lunch at Grandmommy’s. I said, “It’s this thing, I don’t know. Just wait.” So they were anticipating SOMETHING. God, parenthood is so much work. They were so preoccupied with bubbles and candy and neon plastic toys that they didn’t throw a fit that lunch was not Little Ceaser’s Pizza. Compromise!