Today I took Wonder Boy to go see the Easter bunny, guilt finally winning after seeing a million Instagram pictures with cute happy kids.
He had only been as a baby the last time he saw our local white rabbit but that look of indignant tolerance had me skipping last year’s portrait session in favor of peaceful ignorant bliss.
We got dressed, he in the outfit I got that almost made the cut for Easter day and myself in something reqsonable.
He immediately went outside to dig in the dirt with his faded Lightning McQueen trowel while Daisy led the excavation expedition.
So I dusted him off, threw his shoes on and ran to the mall with my mom to engage in an Easter tradition, the first one of this year (and today is the day before, no less.)
He had a choice, as we peeked past the photographer and as the bunny waved back he said he would like to go see him.
I always give him a choice in the beginning, because then I could skip the never-ending line and say he didn’t want to. But he was happy and smiling and willing to stand by the white picket fence and stare at fading silk flowers.
Little trips to and fro to different stores on errands as my mom waited in line. Ever the patient one that holds a place so he won’t be cranky for his big moment.
Then his big moment came and he balked, screaming for me as the bunny waved to him with that friendly frozen face and a tie worthy or a mad hatter’s nightmare while my mom tried to lure him into looking at the freakishly large, bespectacled rabbit.
I walked over, remembering the little girl who had just wailed as her mother struggled to get her to sit next to her impatient sister and asked if he would like me to sit next to him.
That had been the way Santa was able to hold a conversation at Disneyland, and with situations like this it’s easier to go straight for the kill than toy mercilessly with a toddler’s emotions.
And here is the result. Thank goodness I wore a decent shirt and earrings.