Freedom! I took my final last night in my lingusitics class and feel like I did fairly well. It was definitely one of those situations where, upon finishing the exam, I looked up to find everyone else still furiously working away when the panic flooded over me. “Crap, I did something wrong” was the immediate thought that came to mind, so I went back through each question and answered them again. I still feel like I did okay…
I recently told a story to someone about my childhood who laughed so hard that she nearly spit out her beverage. We were at lunch, the entire lunch room was erupting in laughter, when she said “You need to write this story down – it’s too good to not share with as many people as possible.” Immediate light-bulb! Blog time…
The story started as she asked me if I were ready for the holidays. The answer, as any of you all know who have read, is that I loathe the holidays. My response to her was similar, but more polite, and she acknowledge the same attitude towards the holidays as I have! Hooray! I’m not the only scrooge. The girl in my office seated to my left promptly said that she loves the holidays, and then said “Anyone who doesn’t believe in Santa in my house doesn’t get presents, I don’t care how old you are.” I laughed – and then the topic of “finding out about Santa” came up.
Here’s the story I told. It’s about how my little brother found out about all the mythical creatures of the holidays.
When I was ten and my younger brother was six, our mom took a trip out west to California to see her best friend. This trip just happened to take place over a major holiday, Easter Sunday. It’s a major holiday for our family because it meant getting dressed up and going to Grandmas for dinner. Plus all of the novelty items such as Cadbury Eggs, Chocolate Easter Bunnies, Easter Baskets full of fun awesome things and then of course, the annual hunt for the colored Easter Eggs that the Easter Bunny left for us to find! Hooray!
Mom’s never left over another major holiday since the fiasco of 1996.
Mom had made our Easter Baskets, filled them with the goodies and then promptly hid them where my brother and I couldn’t find them. She instructed my dad that she had taken care of the preparation. All he had to do was put them out on the kitchen table early that morning for us to find when we woke up. I was ten, I already knew that the Easter Bunny wasn’t real, but as a good older sister, I played along to keep the secret alive for my younger, most naive, little brother.
Now, the remaining part of this story is second hand information that has been told and retold for years in my family. On Easter Morning, my Dad got up early as he always does, poured his cup of coffee and sat down to watch the morning news. He’s been an early riser since before I can really remember. My little brother woke up a little later that morning and eagerly jumped out of his big, red, firetruck bed and ran down the hallway in search of the goodies that the Easter Bunny had left for him to find. He ran into the kitchen, which was easily viewed from the couch that Dad had been sitting on, and looked on top of the kitchen table. My little brother noticed that there weren’t any baskets filled with Bunnies and fake colored eggs with M&M’s inside – the table was empty. So he ran outside the backdoor. My Dad, sitting on the couch watching as his six year old son opened the sliding glass door in his little Thomas the Train sleep shirt and whitey-tighty underwear, was confused as to what his son was up to. My little brother came back a few minutes later only to then run outside the front door.
At this point, my Dad was completely befuddled.
Nearly two minutes later, my little brother came back in the front door. He sulked as he climb the stairs from the front door to the living room, where my Dad was still sitting, happily sipping on his early morning cup-o-joe. My little brother rounded the edge of the couch and slowly marched towards my Dad. At this point, Dad finally decided to figure out what was up.
“Whats wrong buddy?” my Dad asked.
“Dad, there aren’t any eggs! The Easter Bunny forgot us!”
Now, here would be a perfect time for my Dad to make up some story about how “the Easter Bunny is running late, buddy, he’ll be here soon” as he figures out some way to distract my little brother and bring down the Easter Baskets. But – – he didn’t.
After about twenty seconds of awkward silence my Dad replies to my then six year old brother, “Son, the Easter Bunny is dead.”
My little brother who was standing innocently in front of him, still half awake, looked at him with the most confused of faces before he erupted with laughter. He laughed and laughed, and laughed, and laughed with my dad jovially joining in after his realization of what he just told his son. My Dad gave him his Easter Basket and my little brother came to wake me up to tell me all about the Easter Bunny.
My brother has been corrupted ever since.
The best part of the story, though, is when we got to my Grandmas house. I heard my little brother run in the front door calling out, “Nonnie! Nonnie! Guess what!? The EASTER BUNNY IS DEAD!”
…just one of the many things my Dad has never been able to live down.
And, this is how my brother found out there were wasn’t an Easter Bunny … or Santa.