Today I asked a co-worker who has young children if his kids still believed in the Easter Bunny. “No, we never tried to make them believe in the Easter Bunny,” he said. “I have a hard enough time lying about Santa Claus. I don’t think they’d fall for the Easter Bunny.”
To a young child, the idea of a human-sized bunny hiding eggs and baskets of candy in the house is just as plausible as the idea of a single man delivering stacks of presents to every Christian household in the course of a night by means of a flying sleigh. In fact, I’d argue it’s even more plausible. Because the legend of Santa Claus is so detailed, there’s a lot to doubt: The presents are made by elves? Santa personally maintains a list of who deserves presents? He keeps yearly tabs on my pant size? He puts everyone’s presents in his sleigh? These wingless reindeer fly? He really eats all those cookies? (My mother told me once that he fed most of the cookies to the reindeer.)
The Easter Bunny, on the other hand, doesn’t have a lot of myth to live up to. Little is told about his personal life or history; indeed, he’s a mysterious figure who simply enters the house, drops some candy into a basket, hids the basket somewhere in the house, and then hops away to the next house. Hey, it could happen.
After the first Christmas that I knew for sure that it was my parents putting the presents under the tree, when Easter rolled around, I asked, “Does this mean you’re the Easter Bunny too?” They seemed a little surprised that I still nurtured this Easter Bunny fantasy, perhaps figuring that the destroying the Santa Claus belief had matured my thinking about magical holiday icons in general. They confirmed that yes, they were the Easter Bunny. “And the tooth fairy?” I asked, already knowing their answer, sullen with the realization that life is a lot less magical than previously thought.
