Over the weekend, Kent and I were perusing the local thrift stores for project pieces, and of course Sassy was supervising. We were driving down the road, when randomly Sassy started talking about her stuffed bunny, and then wanted to know where the Easter Bunny came from…
Crap! Why do I have no idea what the answer is. Why is the Easter Bunny lacking a backstory, or are Kent and I the only ones unaware of it?
Not knowing the answer, I do what I do best, and punted to Kent. Impressively, he quickly responds that he obviously lives in a hole in the ground like the other bunnies.
A large mythical and magical rabbit, that delivers baskets of goodies to kids all over the world, and he lives in a dirt hole in the ground.
Sassy wasn’t too enthused by the answer, but she accepted it as the God’s honest truth.
I was prepared for so many questions about Santa, or leprechauns, or the tooth-fairy. How did the Easter Bunny slip by? I’m normally one to think quick on the spot, not about rabbits apparently. It was not our finest moment.
I could hear her mumbling in the backseat, talking it out to brilliant 4-year-old self.
“He’s so big, must be a big hole”
“Maybe it’s a cave”
“I hope the other bunnies are nice to him”
I was worried she was starting to doubt our backstory, but alas she moved on to wanting to have a slumber party at the North Pole.
About 10 o’clock that night, I had an epiphany that would have been helpful around 8 hours earlier. Easter Island. The dad-gum Easter Bunny would be from Easter Island. I’m a moron. How could I have missed this? It seems so obvious! Oh well.
So, it would be greatly appropriated if we could all just stick to the hole in ground story. Our bad, but really could you have our backs on this?