Walking through our local Target store the week before Easter was akin to being an Oompa Loompa. I felt small as I walked through the canyon-like aisles of brightly colored Easter candy, baskets, fake grass, and stuffed toys. Small, and solidly in midlife. In what seems like a second ago, I was buying Cadbury eggs and Paas egg dying kits for my kids who are now adults. And, perhaps a minute before that, I was the kid eagerly awaiting Easter morning and the basket of goodies hidden somewhere in our farmhouse. But that’s where the story/memory goes a little dark. One year, the Easter Bunny forgot me. No, that’s not entirely accurate. To be more specific the Easter Bunny punished me.
Egg-citement builds
The details are sketchy. Typically the day before Easter Mom would let us dye a couple of dozen hard-boiled eggs fresh from our neighbor’s farm.
It was a joyous, albeit messy, project. I still remember using the super-cool wax crayon that magically made designs despite the dye.  I also recall the challenge of dying small parts of the egg so it would be multi-colored. The wire “dipper†inevitably bent at an odd angle and allowed the egg to splash back into the cup of dye.
One of us kids would also sneak a fresh, un-boiled, egg into the dye as well. It was meant to be a surprise for the recipient when we played the egg-bashing challenge on Easter Sunday. (One of my brothers and I would each select an egg from our baskets and then, on the count of three, crash them together. One egg usually smashed and the other didn’t. The un-smashed egg was considered the winner. The dyed raw egg was always the wild card and a perennial favorite prank.)
I’m not sure what I was–or wasn’t–doing, but somehow I was on my mom’s last nerve that year. She told me if I didn’t “straighten up†the Easter Bunny would not be hopping in my direction. What?  No!  The Easter Bunny was a happy, hoppy, benevolent soul. He didn’t judge the antics and pre-Easter high-energy excitement of children, did he? PFFFT.
Bedtime arrived, and I was excited. As I stared at the ceiling in my little upstairs room, I wondered what toy and candy goodies would be in my basket. Stuffed toys were always welcomed in my bedroom menagerie.
My brothers and I were expected to stay in our beds on Easter morning until Mom or Dad called us downstairs. Then the hunt was on. Somewhere a basket with our name on it was hidden, and it was great fun to discover its whereabouts.
Easter morning. The spring air was still chilly, so I kept the bed covers up tight around my neck. When will they call us down? I heard my brothers moving in their room, so they were ready too. Then, a creak of a door.
“All right. You can come on down and look for your baskets.â€
There was a mad scramble as we jostled for space and speed on the narrow stair steps. Down, down, down. Delights were waiting! It wasn’t long before each of my brothers had their basket, but I couldn’t find mine. I looked and looked and looked. My younger brother’s basket, in particular, overflowed with goodies, and I was perplexed. Where was my basket?
Finally, with watery eyes, I asked for help from Mom and Dad. Could they give me a hint? Mom looked at me sternly. “I told you yesterday that if you couldn’t behave the Easter Bunny would not leave you a basket. See what happens when you are naughty?â€
The reality of not getting a single jelly bean, a boiled egg to smash, or a chocolate bunny sank in and filled me with deep sadness. Â Dad would not meet my eyes as I watched my brothers disassemble their baskets into piles of goodies. Â I felt empty. Bad. Bewildered. But, I did not cry. I would not cry. If Mom and the Easter Bunny were in cahoots, so be it.
I’ve never forgotten that childhood Easter, obviously. It taught me a lot about love and being lovable. It taught me about actions and consequences even if I was too young to understand. It taught me shame and humiliation and the unbearableness of being me.
Last week as I walked through the aisles at Target, I observed parents carefully selecting gifts for their children’s Easter baskets.  Somehow it felt like a “do-over,†and was the best part of my day.
