There is NO Easter Bunny!

If I had a nickel for every time a cheery voiced stranger inquired as to whether my daughter was excited to see the Easter bunny, I could buy myself an Easter rabbit fur coat.

More perplexing than the inquiry, however, was said stranger’s response to Eowyn’s blank stare after my explicative interjection: “We don’t really do the bunny thing-We’re more into the Jesus rising from the dead thing.” This is when I took out my pocket-sized Four Spiritual Laws pamphlet and hummed “Just as I Am”. Kidding. Shockingly, in truth, my tepid and friendly reference to the resurrection unfailingly inspired the same response- a response perhaps warranted by confessing to cannibalism or necromancy: Said stranger coolly nods with tight-lip sobriety and a piteous glance towards my cherubic offspring. Poor Eowyn. No Easter bunny for her- It will be a small miracle if she becomes a productive member of society. (Thank goodness there will be Obamacare to support her until she is 26.) Honestly, with a glazed look in their eyes at the mention of “Jesus”, one might conclude that we lived in Iran instead of the “cracker suburbia” of Montgomery County. And really, if you had to pick a story worth believing (and you do) – Bunny delivering eggs or Jesus delivering people- my money is on Jesus.

Amazingly, in spite of the bunny’s absence, Eowyn managed to have a fabulous holiday. This year was the inaugural egg hunt at home before church, which meant that it began in that Rockwellian way and deteriorated into the hysterical mother stridently urging Eowyn to “eat your Easter scone faster…do it now!” Fortunately, our memories are generally selective, as is the family photographer who chose to NOT capture that moment for posterity.

The service was glorious. Kincaid wore the most darling, emasculating, Naval-inspired outfit, which he avoided throwing up on- our own Easter miracle. Later, we hosted a precedential holiday dinner for twenty-five Kulp family members. What insanity- What fun. Three babies did a rotation in Caid’s crib. Jake, our world-traveling Renaissance man deigned to attend after a decade away…being a war hero etc. My grandparents relished surveying their progeny with pride and affection effusing from their gaze. And I wore a Lilly “Fiesta” dress to complement the celebration of the rising of the Son.

In close, I would like to thank Mr. Bob Asher for making this Easter a bit more blessed with his divine confections that now haunt my hips and my mother, Jacqueline Jean who has left a legacy of Easter dinners in her (figurative) wake and has generously bestowed her ham-baking wisdom upon my much younger shoulders and my husband who has emerged as an excellent host, even lending a pair of jeans to a peed-upon parent. Happy Easter to all.