The (Plastic) Green, Green Grass of Home, an Easter Story
I sometimes stress over what to write about for this weekly blog and my writer husband often counsels me that the right story is right in front of my nose. So here goes.
Who Touched The Easter Baskets?
I spy with my eye two Easter baskets, which look as though a pack of rabid raccoons has rifled through them. A beheaded chocolate bunny sits on a throne of peeled-back tin foil, next to a bottle of Serenelle, which, according to the bottle, reduces occasional stress and produces calming brain waves.
Perhaps the bunny was reaching for the pills when the universe had other plans.
The Serenelle is a telltale sign that these Easter baskets were not made for my young children or grandchildren. They belong to my daughters, who are still sleeping off their sugar-induced comas as I type this.
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I got some gentle eye-rolling from my husband and my daughters’ friends expressed mild shock about girls in their mid-twenties still getting visits from the Easter bunny, but I swept it away, along with the plastic grass that clings to the hardwood floor.
My girls work hard in their jobs in and around Times Square and are expected to perform at high levels as they swing through the concrete jungle. When they say they miss home and make their way down the Parkway on the commuter bus, it is a mother’s intuition to serve up a few dollar-store Easter baskets as a sweet taste of home—along with a Serenelle or two—in service of them decompressing for a few days.
Based on the discarded wrappers of Reese’s eggs that I found this morning in the master bathroom garbage, I sense that the hubby would also miss the Easter basket if I stopped the tradition.
I can’t help but think there are other parents out there utilizing the adult Easter basket as the touch of “green, green (plastic) grass of home” for their adult children.
