Easter is tomorrow. As usual, this most Christian of holidays snuck up on me, in spite of the pastel bunnies staring at me from their store shelves since February.
I really don’t know WHY it sneaks up on me every year. Early, late or in-between, it always seems to confuse me. Maybe it’s the changing date that gets me. March? April? Someone, please, just tell me when I can no longer buy those addicting Cadbury Mini Eggs, which always SELL OUT long before the actual holiday.
As a child, Easter meant a new church dress, a stuffed rabbit and a basket full of candy. On reflection, I think my parents were rather generous. Although their offerings seem downright simple compared to the gifts I’ve heard kids get these days. (A bike for Easter? Really?)
My kids’ previous Easters involved a simple chocolate egg filled with some sort of British candy, brought with great pains from England, because that’s what my husband associates with Easter. I was okay with this tradition because my kids were small and we ended up eating most of their candy anyway. Plus it was easy for me to maintain.
At least it was until this year.
This year, Easter fell right after three very long months of… well, boring life stuff that takes up a great deal of time. But the point is, no chocolate Easter eggs were procured from overseas or stateside British wares shops.
Nope — just plain ol’ American Reese peanut butter eggs and jelly beans will be in their baskets tomorrow. (The same baskets I spent this evening pulling down from their dusty closet hiding places — see first paragraph about the holiday always sneaking up on me.) I did find some Cadbury caramel bunnies and — the most loveliest of all UK imports — Cadbury creme eggs. All of these things were purchased two days before the actual holiday, and I was grateful to have remembered to do anything at all.
My humble Easter offerings are sitting on the table, surrounded by stuffed rabbits from years gone by (because I sure as heck ain’t buying my kids another stuffed animal for their already over-stuffed rooms).
I know I shouldn’t wish away my children’s childhood, so forgive me if I confess that a small piece of my tired brain is looking forward to the day when the Easter Bunny charade is over, and I can just hand my kids the candy directly.