More on the death of the Easter Bunny
I kinda knew that Noah was going to figure things out this year. He’s eight now and it seems like that’s an age when many kids start putting two and two together. I’ve always felt a little ambivalent about the whole thing. I loved it as a kid but I also remember how sad I was when I found out the truth. Unlike a lot of children, I didn’t feel betrayed — just sad. I guess I assumed that we could manage it as well as my mother did and I think for the most part we have.
So we’ve hung up stockings but I haven’t disguised my handwriting on the “To Noah” tags. And Brett took a bite out of each cookie but we never stood outside with sleigh bells. When Noah asked questions, we’d always answer with, “What do you think?” We never tried to explain away inaccuracies or contradictions because I figured that he would explain them away himself for as long as he needed the stories. I knew that if I spent too much time trying to keep up the myth, I would have to go to greater and greater lengths to gaslight him. I didn’t want to do that, which is why I didn’t change the candy hiding place this year.
After I filled the plastic eggs, (way in advance because it’s easier that way) I put the left-over Easter candy in the same place I always do. Noah climbed up on the counter to get a bowl for his crackers and happened to look on the top shelf and see the jelly beans and foil-covered chocolate eggs.
He came into the family room and asked, “Hey, mommy, do you have any candy I could have?”
“Nope,” I answered.
“Are you sure? You don’t have any candy?”
“You’ll get plenty of candy in a couple of days,” I told him. “But what gave you the idea that I have some?”
(I had my suspicions, you see.)
“No reason,” he shrugged then wandered off.
A little later he came back.
“Mommy, do you fill my eggs?”
“Fill your eggs?”
“Yeah, are you filling eggs for me?”
“Do you mean your Easter eggs?”
“Yeah,” he answered. “But never mind. Forget I asked.”
“Noah, do you want to ask me something?”
He shook his head and started to walk away. Then stopped and looked at me.
“I think you’re filling the eggs,” he stated. “I found the candy and I think you’re filling the eggs.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I think you’re the Easter Bunny,” he said, steeling himself.
“You do?” I was still stalling.
“Yes, I think so. Are you?”
“Do you want me to answer that?” I asked him gently.
He thought for a minute then took a deep breath and nodded.
“Yes, Daddy and I are the Easter Bunny.”
He looked down.
“No Easter Bunny,” he said sadly.
“But Noah, listen here, do you know what’s going to happen when you wake up on Sunday?”
He shook his head.
“What’s going to happen is that you’ll wake up and you’ll have to find your Easter basket and then you’ll have to go on an egg hunt and those eggs will be filled with candy.”
“Really? Still?”
“Yes, just like it’s always been. Only instead of thinking the Easter Bunny brought it, you’ll know that it’s Daddy and me loving you and filling up eggs and making a basket for you.”
“Ok,” he snuffled. “Mommy? Did you think there was an Easter Bunny when you were little?”
“Yes I did.”
“And were you sad when you found out there wasn’t?”
“Yes, and I felt a little lonely because it was more fun to believe.”
He agreed with this. Then I told him that when Madison was bigger, he would help hide the eggs for her and help her eat the candy, too. This cheered him up.
Brett was present for this conversation and kept trying to change the subject like this.
“Hey!” full of forced gaiety. “Anyone see The Office the other night? Now that’s one funny show!”
Poor Brett.
When I put Noah to bed last night, I asked him how he was feeling about it.
“Terrible,” he answered but he said it cheerfully. “Can I help hide Madison’s basket this year?”
I said no because I needed him to help her find it, which he seemed to think was sensible.
Now I’m trying to play up all the love that goes into making Easter for him. Like when Brett went out for coffee, we made a big deal out of giving each other meaningful looks and talking in code because I need him to get a chocolate rabbit. This tickled Noah.
“You’re talking about something for me, aren’t you!” he said jumping around on the couch. “For my basket!”
I think he’s ok. But Brett and I, well, we’re a little sad about it. Although I guess I’m relieved, too.
What a sweet story. Noah sounds like such a great kid…
That’s a great story, and I feel bad for Noah on his discovery. I had a very irksome experience in the grocery store last weekend, when I asked the checkout girl to put all the Easter stuff in one bag (so I could leave it in my car until the kids were asleep). I’m glad to know that I’m not the only one trying to hang on to their innocence.
I was about 8 when I learned the truth about Santa. Much in the same way. I couldn’t sleep that night and woke up and wondered into my parent’s room. I found our presents-beanbags filled with toys-in their closet. That morning, they excitingly told me Santa brought it. I was crushed. I then found the fabric flowers I had sacrificially given to Santa along with his cookies behind the coffee maker in the kitchen. I knew then, the truth about Santa….
I think you (and Noah!) handled it incredibly well. I must selfishly say that I am glad you shared this experience…8 years old is occurring here very soon…*sigh* I was still somewhat amazed he still believes this year but he was discussing how big the EB must be in order to carry baskets…with his 4 y.o. brother…hmm. I worry that my 4 y.o. will figure it out a lot sooner because of the closeness of the boys and their constant companionship and conversation. OK well that was a bummer! Instead, have a happy day, and here’s to growing up with loving if overly analytical parents…*clink*
That’s very sweet. I’m not looking forward to the whole thing, myself–I was really sad when I figured the whole thing out as a kid, and cried knowing that I’d never again wake up at 2 AM on Christmas Eve, wondering if I heard Santa’s footsteps on the roof. I didn’t feel lied to or betrayed, just sad.
Jacob seems all too happy to accept our version of events and isn’t questioning much yet. I wonder if that will change in the next year–and if I’ll be ready.
This is fascinating to me. I’m pretty uncomfortable with the whole Santa/Easter Bunny/Tooth Fairy thing (my daughter is almost four). I worry that my daughter can pick up on it. But I figured this out when I was five. Someone told me, and I instantly knew it was true, and I did feel very betrayed. It never occured to me that kids went until they were eight, and I wonder if it is because I was already pretty wary and distrustful of adults by the time I was five. I trust my daughter’s experience will be different, so this is really interesting for me to think about.
You are soooooo the parent I want to be someday.
I’m with Cecily.
And, I very much think you are the parent my mother wishes she could have been.