The Easter Bunny

Last Friday, Kate told Bridget that there is no Easter Bunny.

This was obviously sooner than I’d planned. I don’t remember exactly how old I was when I figured out that the pantheon of holiday gift-creatures weren’t real, but I know it was a lot older than 5 1/2 (Bridget’s birthday is in October). The problem is that this kid is so relentless and curious that we really couldn’t wait any longer. Actually, Kate’s always had issues with, in her words, lying to our children; I’ve just barely been able to convince her to let there be magic in Bridget’s world for as long as possible.

But when Bridget spends all of her weekdays staring out of our kitchen window, forgetting to eat her lunch and instead asking Kate where the Easter Bunny comes from, telling her how she wants to spend all afternoon scouting out the backyard in case he shows up early, and peppering her with complex questions about logistics (not to mention the point-blank, “Do you believe in the Easter Bunny?”)—well, there’s only so long “magic” is even a viable answer anymore. She wants to know how this magic works. Why this bunny, and not other bunnies? Why on this one day? What are the rules? And why aren’t mom and dad more concerned about this?

In general, Bridget does not sit back and accept answers that she thinks are intentionally vague. She argues. She keeps digging. And she doesn’t hesitate to assert herself (to her swimming teacher, loudly: “I don’t have to put my face underwater, and you can’t make me”), even though I would still describe her as a fundamentally shy kid. Does she split hairs? Dear lord.

So Kate had to tell her, because she was on the verge of figuring it out for herself.

And apparently Bridget took the news pretty well. Kate told her it’s really just a fun story that parents get to tell their kids, and that she hoped Bridget wasn’t upset or mad at us. She promised that we’ll still have an Easter egg hunt this year, and the years after that. (Did I mention Kate is an amazing mother?) A surprise mini-bag of Mini Eggs helped cushion the blow. So far Bridget hasn’t asked about the Tooth Fairy or Santa, but let’s just say those bullets are now in the chamber.

So from now on, Easter is about stories and chocolate—not giant, sentient rabbits that have a key to our house. I think I can live with that. Hopefully Bridget will sleep a little easier, too.

Detective face, Easter 2010.