An Easter Story

As a child, I believed everything my parents told me with a fierce, unwavering intensity. My parents, knowing this, had a great deal of fun during my early years, mostly at my expense. One particular occurrence took place on Easter morning. Like most American children, Easter in our house meant waking up early to hunt for hidden eggs and baskets filled with candy. That morning I woke up with the sun, overcome with six year old excitement and ran into the kitchen, where my dad, always an early riser, was already sitting at the kitchen table, sipping on a steaming cup of coffee. "Happy Easter, Dad!" I remember saying. To which, he replied something to the tune of..."well, it would have been, but I ahhh....shot the Easter Bunny"...and held up a large white rabbit pelt. Immediately, I knew without a doubt, that it was true. My father had single-handedly ruined Easter for every single child in the entire world - and they would know it was MY father who'd done it. My life, as I knew it, was over, and I burst into an uncontrollable fit of tears. This, in turn woke up my mother, who, along with my father tried to explain to me that it had been nothing more than a joke, and that the Easter Bunny was alive and well. But I knew. I knew he was dead, and even after the tears finally stopped I lived in fear that somebody would find out that my father had the Easter Bunnies blood on his hands. That fear lasted an entire year - until the next Easter when I apprehensively awoke, and with great relief found hidden eggs and baskets filled with candy.

*This is an honest to goodness true story - one of Josh's favorites because he gets a great kick out of my naivety as a child and the great advantages that my parents took of it*