I’m standing inside the house, just behind the front door. I have my hand on the door handle ready to turn it. The little girl inside me has this tingly sense of anticipation and excitement, just like at Christmas, except now it’s April. It’s Easter Sunday morning.
At 57 years of age, I’m a traditionalist. A bit of a softy, a hopeless sentimentalist and have always loved a jaw-dropping surprise which goes to plan. There are givers and takers in this world and I know I’m a giver. The selfish reason is because for me it’s all about the adrenalin rush in the lead-up, delivery and expression on the face of the receiver. I was paying the toll ticket for the car behind me way before ‘paying it forward’ was the trendy thing to do, and back in the days of toll booths.
When I became a first-time Mum, 21 years and 2 days ago, there was one thing I knew I would do, and that was to lie to my children for as long as I could. That big fat white fluffy, bearded, winged lie was to ensure Santa Clause, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny were a part of my children’s childhood dreams for as long as I could get away with it. I wanted those mythical characters to become as much a part of their childhood as they were a part of mine. In their late teens when they had well and truly wised up, I would still ensure there was a basket or a pillowcase full of surprises waiting at the end of each of their beds each Christmas and Easter morning.
Now my children are young adults living independent busy lives in a world of harsh realities and cruel truths. They don’t yet have children of their own and I guess it won’t be until they do, that they will really grasp the importance of that tradition of Easter and Christmas and the Tooth Fairy that I brought into their lives from birth.
This Easter Sunday like many parents, I guess I’m hoping for a miracle.
I’m hoping the Easter Bunny found me as I’m housesitting for a friend not far from our family home. I’m hoping the kids had a word in Mr. Bunny’s ear on where to find Mum. I’m hoping as I turn that door handle to the front door, I will find a little Easter basket waiting for me to reassure me that even at the age of 57 there are still surprises to be had….and I LOVE surprises.
But I take my hand off the door handle and leave it closed because that is the reality sometimes of life.
More than anything I am hoping I have passed on a legacy to my children that on occasions such this, it’s not about the chocolate, the candy or the egg count. The truth, as parents we held from our children in those early years, was all about the magic, the mystery, and the element of surprise to fill their hearts and soul with love. More than anything else that little white lie was to teach them about the gift of giving in this life, and not about receiving when it comes to those you love.
Happy Easter to all my Button Jar Storytellers. I hope your day was filled with lots of love and lots and lots of sticky gooey filled chocolate.