Who knew the Easter bunny could be the tipping point down the rabbit-hole of parent disillusionment? Perhaps a bit of ironic payback for all those bicuspid-bitten chocolate ears.
Before the onset of adolescent behavior and teenage disdain -- including "don't park where my friends can see you" trips to the mall -- children actually rely on their parents for answers. For a young child, parents are put on a demigod pedestal of all-encompassing knowledge -- until they learn how to Google. At some point, however, parental authority is brought into question; especially when the answer is suspect or "go ask your mother" one too many times.
My fall from parental grace started with a seemingly innocent question this past Easter weekend. While getting ready for bed after dyeing her fingers -- and a few eggs -- hues of pink, purple and green, the 6-year-old asked, "is the Easter bunny a real rabbit or someone in a costume?" I contemplated an esoteric response, but this school of thought can glaze over the eyes of a kindergartner. Instead I opted for "what do you think?" -- one rung above "because I said so" on the parent cop-out ladder.
While not a face of utter disappointment, the furrowed brows and scrunched nose spoke volumes as she stood silently at the bathroom sink. Since she had never sat on the Easter bunny's lap he might be real. Then came a troubling thought: How could a real rabbit hop from Florida to Michigan in one day; let alone carry all those jellybeans and chocolate treats? Thankfully some sort of magical bunny elves consensus was reached before bedtime.
However, the parental rabbit-hole had been exposed -- along with the fraudulent holder of the "World's Greatest Dad" coffee mug.
While only a momentary lapse of disillusionment, the days of complete suspension of disbelief might be numbered. Although some people never entirely let go -- we call them Detroit Lions season ticket holders. I'm not sure when I stopped believing in the Easter bunny, but I played along with my parents for Santa's sake -- even when the jolly old elf's handwriting matched my mother's cursive.
Unfortunately, the questions only get harder as we go deeper down the hole: Where do babies come from? Why are friends mean? What is algebra? Then comes a dissertation on death as the family gathers in the bathroom for a two-flush funeral for Flipper the goldfish. Then again, death where is thy sting compared to inquires about the opposite sex -- or that last word altogether.
About that time -- as I search for a stealth dad parking spot in front of the mall -- I'll yearn for the days of rabbit-size disillusionment.
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