I lie to my granddaughters. I tell them there is a Santa Claus and an Easter Bunny.
It doesn’t bother me one bit to fib about Santa. I sort of believe in him, too. At least he looks like a human and, in all the movies about him, he is human.
But the Easter Bunny — a tall, furry rabbit that wears human clothing and sits in a chair at the mall? Even if we lying adults tell our innocent young children about this gigantic rabbit, how is it possible they believe us?
I have a problem with the Easter Bunny. Perhaps it’s because my parents weren’t in on the fun. They never told me there was an Easter Bunny. I’m sure it’s because I was so incredibly intelligent as a baby they knew I wouldn’t believe it.
But here I am, telling my granddaughters that the Easter Bunny is going to hide their Easter eggs and will leave them a basket filled with treats on Easter Eve. We draw pictures of the Easter Bunny; we sing songs about the Easter Bunny; we dye dozens of eggs for him to hide, and their mother and I will take the children to the mall to have their photo taken with him (or is he a she?).