Thursday, March 13, 2003

Only one piece of mail this morning in my email box. Pottery Barn wants me to "Get ready for Easter Brunch, at Pottery Barn." Do you suppose this is an invitation for Easter Brunch at one of their stores? Maybe not. They say they have everything I need to celebrate and decorate with style. With their help, throwing an Easter party will be simple. Wire bunnies, apparently, are key to success, as are pastel plates. And in their thoughtful email they include a photograph of a stylishly decorated table, complete with an egg tree, lit candles and a link to their website, for my shopping convenience. I'm touched.

The last time I tried to get the jump on this holiday sort of melted in my face. While browsing at Target, I chose the three perfect chocolate Easter bunnies for Max, Alex and William. Not too big. Each bunny an individual, and male or at least nongender specific. Minimal use of artificial colors. I thought, "It's too soon to be doing this." And then I remembered the year before; Easter eve and I was out in the world scrounging for any kind of holiday treats. This year I determined to be prepared.

Our home, at the time, was too, too small to hide any kind of surprises, so I kept the three bunnies tucked away in the back of our car. Safely hidden for the big morning. Three baskets, underwear (it's traditional,) juice boxes and beach toys were collected and on Easter morning we headed to Aunt Holly, Uncle Rich and baby Nicholas's home for an egg*hunt and basket discovery. We arrived at a home beautifully decorated for Easter and Spring and tasteful living. I was happy on two accounts 1. Holly was hosting and I was spared house cleaning and decorating, and 2. At least this year I had managed to get "Good Easter Stuff."

Can you guess what happens to plastic encased chocolate bunnies after four weeks in the back of a car, in sunny California? In my haste to be discreet I never looked at the boxes as I stuffed them with the underwear, and other goodies in to the three baskets. The boys found their baskets in the Spring blooming garden, and then they found the dozens of colored eggs. Alex's confounded, stunned expression was the first indication of the Easter tragedy. His bunny was mostly a hollow, caved in disaster. The two button blue eyes were detached. They were pressed against the plastic and stared out most pathetically. The other bunnies suffered similar fates. Little bow ties were stuck in melted and hardened chocolate folds, and the gaping faces, deformed paws, told of the horror of hot afternoons and cold mornings waiting for Easter morning.

The trauma, thankfully, was short lived, when Alex announced to his anxious brothers, "Hey, it still tastes good!" Easter is about triumph; first suffering and then the glory of rising again.

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