here comes peter cottontail, hoppin' down the bunny trail of broken dreams

So the other night, the boys and I were gathered around the dinner table to partake in whatever luscious concoction I'd whipped up for dinner that night when my oldest son piped up and announced with great fanfare "I know what the Easter bunny better have in my basket this year!"

Lest your first thought be, "Wow. Isn't that kid closing in on the dark side of 13? He still believes in the Easter bunny? Isn't that weird?" the answer is he doesn't firmly believe any longer, but he likes the idea that something resembling an oversized and adorable rat bounces through the house in the wee hours of the morn to leave delicious treats and treasures (and even if he still believed, so what, because deep down inside me, I keep waiting for Santa Claus and his elves to stop me each December in the parking lot of Target to say, "Don't worry, little lady. We got this.").

Now onto your second thought, which, if it was like mine, was to ask, "What do you think the Easter bunny better have in your basket this year?"

(I had to ask because if you're a regular reader around these parts - thank you - you might recall that last Easter, I stuffed the boys' baskets with solid chocolate rabbits, and sweet resurrected Jesus, my youngest son STILL HAS NOT EATEN HIS, so apparently, I might not be the best man for this job)

"A freakin' ipod!" the kid exclaimed, actually jumping up from his seat, sending portions of whatever luscious concoction I'd whipped up for dinner that night to go tumbling down the rabbit hole that may or may not be my kitchen floor. God knows there's enough Cheerios and Rice Krispie pieces down there to confuse visitors to our home into thinking I operate a toddler factory.

Needless to say, his announcement caused me to choke a bit on said luscious concoction, as well as channel the geriatric version of me who sits on a front porch somewhere sipping Country Time lemonade to chuckle softly in the way wise old people chuckle, crook my finger to wave the boy closer to me, and announce that "Back in my day, son, we didn't get no fancy la dee da presents in our Easter baskets. No sir. In my day, we didn't even have baskets. We had to share one measly hard boiled egg and a few black jellybeans and dang nabbit, we liked it!"

Then I made him run around the yard so I could yell at him to get off it, then race over to me so I could pinch his cheeks and ask if I smelled like powder and sadness. This kid will never visit me when I get old.

Long story short, I laughed at him. I laughed and I laughed and I laughed. Then I gently reminded him that Easter is not really like Christmas, and that if anyone deserved an ipod, it would totally be Jesus Christ himself, who I like to think would have an awesome assortment of songs on it when he hit shuffle on his genius playlist. "However," I said to him, "if you've been paying attention at all during church these last few years, Jesus did not emerge from the dead after three days and saunter out of that cave and say 'Wherest though my ipod, bitches?"

Methinks someone is going to be a wee bit disappointed Sunday morning when they come down and find his basket filled with delicious candy treats that have been nestled atop a comfortable pair of summer pajamas. Thanks for nothin', Easter Bunny. Bawk, bawk!

Oh, I can't fool you. As soon as I'm done here, I'm going to Target to pick up a few more things. Probably some more damn Bakugan balls and Tech Deck fingerboards (sidebar - can I possibly drop more product names into this post? - because they're reasonably priced and mama's got a gift card burning up her wallet.

First I have to wait for the damn eggs to boil, though. I started that process nearly 30 minutes ago (after consulting Google on how to cook them, natch) and the water still isn't boiling!! It'll be Monday before I get to Target at this rate, which, I guess, is fine because by then Easter candy will be on clearance. Sheesh!

I just heard one of the eggs popping. Excellent. I never, ever have good luck with this egg coloring tradition. It may have something to do with the fact that I think chickens quite possibly hate me after this particular post from way back in the blogging golden days of 2007. Good God, I've been doing this far too long. Go read those three posts. There probably far better than this one. Besides, it's Good Friday. You're probably not even out there reading or writing today anyway, are you? Hmmm? That's what I thought.

May you have a happy Easter and may all your baskets be filled with delicious Reece's peanut butter eggs...and maybe one Dove solid chocolate rabbit because if you want one, it's honestly still in my pantry.

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The doctor...

She made no "Hmmm" or "This is weird!" nor "Game over, man! GAME OVER!" remarks when I visited her Tuesday afternoon and she felt the lump. She did shake her head a little bit when she was reminded of my age (42 - where's my Country Time lemonade, yo?) and the fact that I've never yet had a mammogram (I know, I know...), so I got ushered down the hall for that. There was a needle. There was a biopsy. I'm pretty sure it's all going to be fine. Same rules as my last post apply.

Thank you all, again and again, for your kind words and pats on the back. If you emailed me and I haven't responded, please know that I adore you - seriously - but I went a little dark for a few days. I will get back to you, I swear. Even though I've not had the pleasure of meeting any of you in person, I consider you treasures.

And now my eggs have just started to boil. Wouldn't you know it...one of them is a damn rogue floater...

Hop along now, my rabbits.