I always think I should make Sean an Easter basket or fill a Christmas stocking.
But I never do.
I think the last time I made an Easter basket for Sean, he was four or five.
That was the year I had the bright idea of filling Easter eggs with coins instead of candy. I am still finding quarters in my flower beds.
Every year, I think that making (or even buying) an Easter basket for Sean is something I should do because all the good moms make awesome Martha Stewart-Pinterest worthy baskets and they post pictures of their happy faced Easter-basket-holding kids on FaceBook. But by the time I remember it, which is like the day before, I don’t feel like going to the store.
And then after it’s all said and done, I would be left with plastic stuff that I don’t want in my house or candy which I don’t really want him to eat. And Easter grass with it’s Velcro-esque properties that sticks to everything including air is evil. Like glitter and those little green bits that shed Christmas greenery, Easter grass is insidious, it gets everywhere — once it enters your house, it NEVER leaves, never decomposes. It is FOREVER. When the world perishes in a big ball of fire, and God sweeps up the remains, in the dust pan will be glitter, Easter grass and green Christmas bits.
So on Good Friday I was starting to feel something that resembles guilt over depriving Sean of this childhood memory, of not having what all the other kids have, so I said to him, “Sean, I’m sorry that I don’t have an Easter basket for you.”
To which he replied, “What’s that?”
“You know,” I said, “An Easter basket, plastic eggs filled with stuff, candy? Coins? Stuff?”
“Oh. Yeah. Whatever. That’s kind of lame.”
So then, I cancelled that order of guilt and went on my merry no-frills parenting way.
Score: Antique Mommy – 1, Easter Bunny 0