How I Killed the Easter Bunny

I didn’t kill the Easter Bunny; I swear I didn’t. It was more like the Easter Bunny stepped on a land mine, and I had to put him out of his misery. The whole situation was different than I thought it would have been. I had been expecting it; I was even preparing for it, but I wasn’t ready for it.

My family and I were sitting at Easter brunch when my daughter stopped what she was doing, looked her mother in the eye and asked, “What if dad hid the Easter eggs?”

With one simple question, the table turned silent. My son, who is a few years younger than his sister burst out laughing saying “Then dad’s a bunny!” My wife and I exchanged panicked looks and laughed along with our son nervously. The humor did not dissuade my daughter, and she kept on with the questions.

Minutes before her loaded question, my daughter had dropped a strawberry on her Easter dress; I took that as an opportunity for cover. “Let’s go see if I can wash the strawberry out of your dress,” I said as I walked my daughter down the hall. I will never forget that walk. Her childhood was being walked to its execution chamber, and I was about to throw the switch on the electric chair.

After I rinsed her dress out, we sat down at an empty booth and she asked her question about the Easter Bunny again. I asked her if she wanted to talk about this now, and she insisted on it. I took a deep breath, said a prayer, and began the dirty work of hacking the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy into a million pieces and hiding the body so that my youngest child would not find out.

“No,” I said, “the Easter Bunny is not real.” The tears began to well up in my eight year olds beautiful, innocent eyes. But, as proof of her readiness for the truth and her maturity, they never fell.

I explained to her that the Easter Bunny was a tradition that parents kept for their children. I wanted her to know that it wasn’t a lie, but an act of love. I hoped and prayed that she would understand that point. I told her that to help kids understand the sacrifice and gift of love that Jesus gave us, parents give gifts to their children - but for some reason, to tell the story, we personify a giant rabbit and give him supernatural powers. I sounded crazy, but she almost seemed to understand.

The conversation continued. She asked about the Tooth Fairy and leprechauns. As the truth unfolded, I watched as my eight-year-old daughter transform from a little girl into a young lady. She looked at me with a smile and said, “I can’t tell my brother, I want him to believe.” Her disappointment in the truth became an excitement that she could be a part of the mystery. I nodded in agreement, and we made a deal. I welcomed her into the Easter Bunny club.

When we got home, I ran inside to hide the eggs and the baskets. My family was going back to the restaurant to pick up my hat that I (conveniently) forgot. My daughter had to run in to get something. She climbed the porch, and paused to look out into the eggless yard. Her heart begged her to check and see if it was true; she wanted to see an egg that wasn’t hidden by her father. I could see the hope on her face turn to a mature understanding. Of course, there weren’t any eggs to be seen. I asked her what she was thinking and she replied “Nothing dad, Happy Easter.” With a big hug I reassured her that despite all of her new information, my love for her did not change.

“Happy Easter young lady,” I replied. As she skipped back to her mother waiting in the car, she left me behind to hide the eggs, the memories, and the body of the Easter Bunny in the back yard. She hadn’t asked about Santa Clause, but I knew that in a few months, I would be out here in the cold digging another hole. I didn’t want to think about that yet. I am going to hold onto that piece of her childhood as long as I can.