When I was a kid, the Easter Bunny would always leave a basket of sugary goodness for me on Easter morning. He’d also hide eggs around the yard for me to find. Well, almost always. One year, I awoke only to find that there was no basket. Heartbroken, I went to my mom, who was still in bed and lamented that the Easter Bunny had forgotten me. Mom, who was clearly as shocked as I was about the situation, instructed me to go back to my room and shut the door. She was going to call the Easter Bunny, and make him come back to our neighborhood.
Yeah! You go Mom! You tell that Easter Bunny he’d better get his cotton tail back over here and bring me some chocolate!
I wasn’t sure why I had to go back to my room. Maybe so I could get dressed in my best double plaid Easter egg hunting suit. Or maybe because my Mom was going to tell ol’ E.B. about himself in language not fit for my tender ears. But sure enough, in about 15 minutes Mom came and got me and said that the Easter Bunny had brought my basket.
Good old Mom. Caring nurturer, keeper of hearth and home, kicker of no-good-slackin’ Easter Bunny booty.