It is Easter Sunday, 2003. I wake up that morning feeling dirty. Not like me at all, I yearn for a shower, before even my first dose of caffeine.
Next to me, Bal is having a nightmare. Upon waking, he tells in vivid detail of being shot once in the arm, once in the leg.
In the room next door, my brother is waking up certain he has been pooped on.
Sleeping soundly and peacefully downstairs is my little sister- aka the Easter Bunny- who had hidden numerous chocolate eggs in our bedrooms, including under our pillows.
Upon further inspection, I realize why I feel so dirty, Bal has been shot and Craig pooped on. We are covered in melted chocolate and tinfoil wrappings from the secret eggs.
To this day, I can not think of that morning without laughing so hard I practically pee my pants.
My Very Own Easter Bunny
Armed with a scrub brush and soapy water, Bal stands at the back of his car. “Probably not the best idea to put an egg in the exhaust eh?” He grimaces as Kaya bounds up behind him.
“Daddy, Daddy doyawannaplaycatchcuzi’mboredandwanttodosomethingfunandmomwon’tletmeinsidecuzshehastocleanthechocolateoffthecarpetandidon’twanttohelpcuziwanttodosomethingfun.Maybewecanridescootersorgototheplaygroundormaybei’lljustsitinthemudhereandeatsomechocolateears…” she spurts on a jacked-up sugar-rush high.