Easter is a time of fluffy bunnies, sweet treats and cute pictures of baby chickens. We gather around our children on Easter morning and watch their faces light up as they pull candy and maybe even a few small toys out of a basket. They cheer at creme eggs and marshmallow peeps and chocolate of all kinds. And then for the rest of the day you are submitted to the hell that is children on a candy high with sticky faces and hands screaming that they just want one more piece of candy!
I grew up in a Christian home so I understand the importance of the holiday and the meaning behind it, but this is, by far, my least favorite holiday. BY FAR! Let’s start with the basics here. An over-sized rabbit comes from some unknown place carrying the hollowed out former homes of chicken fetuses, now filled with delicious candy, and delivers them to children. That is not a holiday, that is a horror movie! And apparently before he makes his delivery he hides a bunch in fields all over your town and alerts the newspaper.
My wife, having read about this on whatever social media app she has wired into her brain, decides that our child MUST compete in the hunt for these hidden eggs! We must prove that our child can outsmart an overgrown bunny for Easter to be complete! So we venture forth into a battle neither of us saw coming.
Somewhere between one and two million parents arrive with their heathen swarms in tow and vie for the best positions on the field of battle. Looking at the endless hordes; I quietly state, under my breath, that I can afford to buy candy. After three days (might be an exaggeration, I’m not really sure, though) of standing in line we finally get word that it is time for the hunt and the largest army ever fielded on American soil steps up. Already the pushing and yelling have begun. They bicker and bemoan their positions. Some psyche themselves up with whispered words. Others stand stoically, ready for the bloodletting to begin.
The children mostly play in the dirt and ignore the overzealous (and probably somewhat mentally disturbed) adults around them.
The word “Go!” is yelled by some hateful entity over a loud speaker and the parents begin pushing their little ones into each other and yelling directions at them over the clamor of the melee. There’s crying and cursing; screaming in the distance. The children seem mostly unaffected, though, as they wander through the forests of kicking parents’ legs and pick up eggs. I held my child’s hand for the most part and tried to keep him close enough not to get trampled by these idiots, which was a real and honest concern.
As we left, my wife and I discussed the horrors we had just witnessed while our young child sat in his car seat munching away on Easter chocolate. We pondered at what would make these parents so rabid about their children gathering up 30 or 40 eggs which each contain a single piece of candy. In the same amount of time you spent at this event you could work and earn enough to buy 5 or 6 bags of premium candy (easily) and host a much calmer egg hunt among friends and family.
We agreed to never again subject our child to an event like this and hope it will help him grow up to be somewhat more well-adjusted than the adults we saw at the egg hunt.
There was one positive that came out of the experience, though. The weekend spent with family doing small egg hunts, the sugar aided hyperactivity, the sticky hands, faces and ruined clothing all pale in comparison to what we went through at the public egg hunt. I don’t know the Easter Bunny, but I’m pretty sure he (She?) would be disappointed if he saw what was happening at these egg hunts.
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