Rabbit, rabbit falls on deaf ears
Chocolate rabbits, it’s traditional I buy them for the children at Easter. I say children but Youngest is well into her teens and the boys adults – but in my head and in their habits (towels on floors, inability to operate a frying pan), they’re young yet.
Anyway, the three bunnies are bought, always the Swiss ones with the red collar and wee gold bell because “they’re the best” they say, although they’ll eat any chocolate they can lay their hands on, indiscriminate sugar junkies.
Traditionally there’s a hunt in the garden, though enthusiasm has waned. Last year it was “OMG, can’t be bothered” until as light was fading, something finally propelled them outside – probably the munchies.
“It was way too easy last year,” says Youngest. “You’re rubbish at hiding eggs. Always in the dustbin, top of the shed, the bushes, sooo easy.”
Right, this year I’ll hide them in the house. I’ll hide them deep. They’ll be lucky if they find them by May Day.
Except for Middle Child. His bunny must be sent to Portugal where he’s working, and Youngest and Eldest are visiting with Other Parent.
“Take this rabbit to your brother please,” I say to Youngest.
“No. No room. I need tops and straighteners, shorts and trainers ...”
“Forget it. Take this rabbit to your brother please,” I said to Eldest.
“Cheers. Thanks,” he says and disappears. Gone to put it in his travel bag no doubt. Aw, Middle will know I’m thinking of him when he gets it. I’m a good mother.
But next night when I’m hunting for the missing corkscrew and brave Eldest’s room, among the flotsam, jetsam and empty bottles on the carpet lies a wee bell on a red collar, a discarded twist of gold foil. Oh!
“Aw yeah. Sorry,” he says. “I thought that was for me. I ate it,” he adds, unnecessarily. Then sniggers.
He’s a human dustbin, of course he ate it. So I pack him off to Portugal with another chocolate rabbit. Will it ever reach Middle Child?
Well, I’m a parent and hope is all we have.