Posts Tagged ‘chocolate bunny’

All the Bunnies Go Boom*

April 16, 2014

I mean, what else would all the bunnies do?

I am betwixt a rock and an Easter basket.

I just realized, even though I sort of knew, that this Sunday is Easter.

Not got a plan for that one.

I could re-enact a great scene or seven from my child hood wherein I hide my Easter basket in a hideously hard place to find it, then torment myself for not being able to find it, then eat all the chocolate in it when, in tears I finally locate the fucking thing.

Thanks mom for many memories of Easter trauma.

Not too closely followed thereafter by fond memories of being in kindergarten and having mom break the news that there is no Santa Claus.

I had already suspected, but my younger sister was abjectly heartbroken.

To give my mom some credit she was just trying to ease the pain of us watching our cousin, whom we happened to live with at the time, opening the largess of Christmas from the mom and the recently separated dad, pending a divorce, both parents had gone over the top for their solo offsprings affection.

Nothing says good times like having just turned six the week before, don’t remember at all if I did get a birthday present that year, and then watching my cousin rip into her presents on Christmas morning.

I can even remember the dingy fawn colored carpeting of the steps that my sister and I sat on that ascended from the living room to the upstairs bedrooms.

Bedrooms I did not have access to either.

My room was a mattress in the basement.

We didn’t have a lot as kids.

Mom had a room that she must have shared with my sister, my aunt had her own room and my cousin had, of course, her own domicile, which was smashed with Barbie’s and Barbie corvettes and Barbie Dream Houses and Barbie shoes, and more crap all Barbie.

And the gigantic, SOLID chocolate Easter bunny she had won at the Easter egg hunt in Warner park that Spring.

My sister and I got to sit and watch that too.

The torture of a child eating chocolate in front of two other little kids who don’t have any is horrid.

Watching my cousin savor that chocolate for over a week drove me to distraction and I think my sister to tears more than once.

If life was fair my sister and I would have found that god damn chocolate egg with the congratulations you won the whole damn egg hunt before it even started.

I mean.

She really did.

My cousin that is.

We walked out into the field, had just barely begun, wasn’t more than a minute, children flocking all around, scrambling to burrow through the bushes, it was cold, not snowing, but frosty, and grey overcast (if it doesn’t snow around Easter there’s something wrong, it typically does, the weather gets all cheeky, then either the weekend before or the week of Easter, it snows, at least according to my memory), my cousin hadn’t walked more than five feet when she bent over and plucked the plastic egg from the grass.

The winning egg.

Repeat sad face of Christmas when my sister and I watched from the stairs.

I think my sister might have won a little prize too, maybe a package of dusty yellow peeps, that were promptly eaten in the car on the way home, while my cousin sat proper and straight holding the biggest chocolate bunny in the world in her lap.

She didn’t even unwrap the thing.

The willpower.

Not something I have ever been able to muster.


Oh yes.

But willpower, like that?


The fact that she eked out eating that bunny for over a week still amazes me.

My basket, little chocolate bunny, not a solid one, mind you, a few smatterings of jelly beans (hate jelly beans, never liked them, gross candy along with licorice) and I think one Cadbury egg cream.

I loved Cadbury eggs.


My sister’s basket might have lasted into the next day.

Needless to say, Easter in my house was never that much fun, although, my mom, in hindsight really fucking tried.

We always dyed Easter eggs.

With Paas Easter Egg coloring kits.

With the little wire egg holder and the little paper cut outs of bunnies and chicks.

I can remember the smell of the vinegar that my mom would mix with the Easter egg dye.

And then dipping the eggs and making stripes.

The eggs drying in the kitchen.

And then after we went to bed, my mom would hide the eggs.

Easter morning the hunt was on.

For the Easter baskets of course, but also for the eggs, and inevitably, I mean every year, one would not turn up.

Until weeks later.

And you knew where it was from the smell of it.


My sister and I never ate the eggs.

Only mom.

I remember watching her peel an egg with a very satisfied expression on her face, the shell crackling down as she rolled it along the table top, then the shells falling away and the egg emerging a gray, brown, weird red or blue-green, from the dye soaking through the shell, and then she would put salt and a little pepper on it and eat it with the most smug look on her face.

It smelled awful.

Funny how much I like a good boiled egg now.

Not so much then.

It grossed me out.

I liked the hunt.

The adventure of finding was more appealing than the actual reward that was given, if any.

I don’t think we got more candy for finding the eggs, it was just the finding of the eggs.

And the basket.

I usually found my sister’s first, and would grouse about how easy my mom had hidden it.

Please, mom, in the oven, again?

Then I would become more and more morose as my own failed to appear and my sister happily gnawed on peeps.

Also an absurd candy that icks me out.

I don’t recall this, but according to family legend one year I found both my sister and my Easter baskets before anyone else was up and I ate all the candy in both.


So, mom always made a point of hiding mine in the most challenging of spots.

The year my cousin won her foot high solid chocolate Easter bunny I had almost given up, it had taken hours and I still had not found it.

Only when I went digging for my mittens in the wicker hamper holding all the scarves and mittens and hats, did I find it.

Remember, Easter’s cold in Wisconsin.

I need my mittens to go out and I couldn’t find both, so I dug to the bottom, nearly toppling over the hamper, when my fingers grazed the handle of the basket.

At last!


I burst into tears.

My mom and my aunt smoking cigarettes and drinking instant coffee in the kitchen laughed out loud at my cries of relief.

I could let go Santa, but I was having a hard time letting go the Easter Bunny.

I don’t have any plans to go hunting through the grass this weekend.

But maybe I will go out and get myself a little Easter gift.

Perhaps a new bonnet.

We used to get one of those too.

That was the best part for me, the new Easter hat my sister and I always got.

That’s what I remember the most.

My sister with her long dark hair in ring curls topped with a straw boater hat that had a black ribbon around it tied into a bow–the ends of the bow draped over the back of the hat and moved with it when she shook her head, and she was dressed in a white sailor dress with a navy ribbon square lined collar,  lace ankle socks and patent leather mary janes finished the look.

That’s my best Easter memory.

Getting ready to go to Easter Sunday dinner at my grandparents house in Lodi and my sister in her Easter bonnet rig.

And despite the poverty of it, looking back, it was exactly what it was supposed to be.

I had a perfect childhood, give or take a chocolate bunny, given enough time and perspective.

It was indeed a grand life.

*No rabbits, chocolate or otherwise, were harmed in the writing of this blog.*


You Are NOT My Mother!

March 27, 2013

She yelled at me in French and ran out of the room.

“No, I am not,” I replied, calm and still, not about to be perturbed by the disruption to lunch, I only have to get through this next hour then I am done.

I could hear crying from the bedroom.

I sighed and walked back to the room and cajoled her out.  We had a chat.  She told me repeatedly in French that she could not understand what I was saying.  I told her right back, mostly in English, then slowly in French, picking and choosing the simplest words.

“You do understand what I am saying and I understand what you are saying, but we cannot have any more chocolate until after lunch, one bunny is enough.”  I finished, tucking up the package that had “accidentally” fallen on the floor.

She had discovered the Easter candy stash.

“Il est tombe,” she said to me, holding out the opened gold foil wrapped chocolate bunny.

Not only had it “fallen” it had magically lost the plastic wrapper keeping the package of five chocolate Easter bunnies in their cardboard box, and some how in the “fall” the first bunny had “accidentally” gotten half way unwrapped.

I put the package on the top of the refridgerator and carried her lunch plate out to the dining room table.  In the few seconds it had taken to carry dish to table, the monkey had pulled a stool out from the corner, clambered up, opened the top of the freezer door and was climbing toward the bunnies.

“Nenna!” I said coming in and pulling her down.  “Arrete!”

She burst into tears, struggled out of my arms, yelled at me and flew away back to the bedroom.


I am not really sure how I got through the shift with her.

Three and a half hours of sleep.

I got home last night at 2:30 a.m.

Another long night, a little closer to rent, and an alarm set for 7 a.m.

I went to bed a touch after three a.m. and it took a moment to settle down.

When the alarm went off, I did not groan, I did not complain, I did not even sigh, I just rolled over, got up, and started my day.  Wash face, brush teeth, make bed, get on knees, talk to God, yeah shut it that’s a part of my routine, read some daily readers, while this was happening the espresso maker on the stove was percolating and the kettle was starting to sing.

I made a bowl of oatmeal and looked at my watch.

I have a little dash of extra time.

I got an incoming message off the FaceCrack.

A chat back and forth, and the sexiest words ever, ever…

“I’m reading your book, it’s good…”

Followed soon thereafter by more sexy words, “this is going to sound funny, but I am actually going to get off chat and go catch up on your blog and keep reading your book.”

Go Mister Go!

Thanks man.

That put a bright spot right into my day.

I also realized as I traipsed down the hill to catch Line 7 at Metro Cadet, that I had negotiated the sleep thing really well, and rather serendipitously.  I had woken up in between my sleep cycles.  If I had gotten five to six hours in, I would have been ruined, awakening in the deep part of my sleep would have made it a monster of a morning, I got lucky.

I also was not planning on working tonight, but here I am, baby sound asleep on the breast, tucked into the brown carrier with the orange and yellow owl on it, once again.

The parents had told me that they were going to go to Euro Disney today for the baby’s one year birthday.  They did not make it out of the city.  They were exhausted and the mom sent me a text at three p.m. right as I had finished doing some writing and was about to do a meditation before, yes, that’s right, more writing.

I sent her a text back, put the kettle on the stove, brewed up some black tea, go team caffeine, and did a quick meditation to get myself centered.  The tea cooled to just the perfect temperature as I finished my sitting and I drank down the cup, packed up the bag and headed up and over the hill.

Double duty to end my six days in a row of babysitting.

I picked the kids up to let the parents get some rest in and we went out to the carousel at Metro Abbess.



Eight rides later.

She had a lot of tickets.

One trip to the Boulangerie, two Reine de baguettes, un demi-baguette, and a long, slow walk back up the hill later, I was ready to unwrap her brother from my body and take a brief sit down.

This did not happen.

The timing in its own way was impeccable, however, as just when I got him out of the carrier, explosive poop.

Out of the diaper, saturating the onesie, on through to his little outfit, narrowly avoiding the carrier.

Thank God, as it’s the only way he will sleep.

I got him striped down and into the bath. Washed, dried, lotioned, pajamma’ed, made dinner for the sister, cleaned the kitchen, unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, aided by a four and a half-year old assistant, got her into pjs, charged up the Ipad for a movie, ate my own dinner, and sighed with relief as he fell asleep and she is now nestled in for quiet time.

Quiet time.

What is that?

Six days in a row of babysitting, I have lost all concept of quiet time.  I have pink and blue paint in my hair, my back hurts from hauling the baby around, my feet hurt from all the walking up and down the hill.


Rent is almost paid.

And my legs look awesome, if I do say so myself, the additional stair climbing is really showing, I have lost weight, not much, but a few pounds, which is nice, and I have managed to blog every night and cover my commitments.

One more to show up for tomorrow and then off to Saint Germain en Laye.

I meet my friend at the train station at three p.m.

Once she leaves I believe the first order of action will be to fill up the gigantic bath tub in the master bath and pile on the bubbles.  I will put some jazz on the stereo, Coleman Hawkins, Lester Young, John Coltrane, Chet Baker, and sink into a hot tub of no children, no worries, no room-mate, no distractions.

And then I will write.

Oh, how I will write.

I will work on my manuscript for The Iowa Waltz and alternate between that and the new piece I started yesterday.  I am going to finish another book in first draft before I go, if I go, which unless something wild and miraculous happens over Easter weekend, I will be at my deadline and be taking the steps to go back to the states.

Where or how I have not a clue.

But I will have this last weekend to relax, unwind, shake the baby sitting off my body and get the writing going.  With April rent squared away I only have to think about food.  That and some cafe cash to rent a table at while I write.

Whatever happens, I feel that there will be another work produced the month of April.

They say April in Paris is lovely.

All signs do seem to point that way.

%d bloggers like this: