Easter is a holiday that was a lot more fun when I was a kid. Like in kindergarten when we made hats by stapling paper flowers to the top of a styrofoam plate and securing it with a big satin ribbon tied under our chins. We’d have a parade around the school to show off our masterpieces.

I guess it’s problematic to have kids do that when not every kid is Christian, but come on…it was fun! If there was a cute Muslim or Jewish tradition like that, I’d be down for that too!

But even Christians get mad about Easter now because it’s “too commercialized.” They say, “When did it start being about the Easter bunny instead of Jesus?”

Oh shut up. Can’t we have both? Why can’t we just have a little fun??

I mean, who is the Easter bunny harming? No one. He just wants to spread eggs and joy!

Actually, that was some serious spin-doctoring marketing shit from our parents right there. How did they convince us that a man-sized, walking bunny entering our homes at night to hide eggs was a good thing? I guess we didn’t focus on that nightmarish part because he also brought us candy.

However, in the next breath, adults would tell us we shouldn’t take candy from strangers.

Very mixed-messaging:

Giant man-bunnies: GOOD ✔️

Adult human beings: BAD ❌

Got it 👍

My mother’s favorite thing to do was hide our baskets so well that we’d end up on the floor crying because we thought we didn’t get one.

I clearly remember rolling around on our carpeted kitchen floor, (Yes, we had wall-to-wall carpeting in the kitchen. The eighties were a weird time.) looking up at my mother with tears streaming down my face. By then she must have felt a little bad because she hinted that we didn’t look everywhere and motioned with her eyes over to the cabinets. I crawled over and opened the door, and there they were, stuffed in with the pots and pans. Don’t be surprised, this is the same woman who helped my kids run Santa over with the toy train that goes around the Christmas tree. She looks like a sweet, miniature lady, but she’s quite sadistic.

After crying on the floor and stuffing ourselves with chocolate, we would put on our Easter outfits, complete with a matching white purse, hat and glove set. I’d slip on my white patent-leather Buster Brown Mary Janes and we’d be off to church.

While I was forced to go to church all year long, these half-assed fair-weather Catholic suckas would show up on Easter Sunday and take our seats. We’d try to get there early but my grandmother took 17 hours to get down her front stairs on the arm of my father, cursing at him the entire time because his favorite thing to do was bust her chops.

She’d call him a son-of-a-bitch as she was getting in the car. God I loved her.

Once torturous church was over, we’d have Easter dinner at my house. My mom always made Sciusceddu (pronounced shoosh-yeah-da) or as I like to call it, ball soup.

It was my absolute favorite.

Then we’d play with our cousins and act like jackasses and just have a ton of fun.

Easter time is especially lackluster for me now. My own kids haven’t believed in the Easter bunny for years. There’s no more magic. No more fancy Easter outfits. No more fun hats. I’m cool with the no church part though.

HAPPY EASTER!!! ✝️ 🐣 🐇