I quit believing in the Easter Bunny on March 25, 1989.
Because that’s the day my dad shot him.
My sister and I had gone to bed like normal little girls after attending the Easter Vigil mass with my parents, dreaming of what the Easter Bunny would put in our baskets, making plans to out-do each other on our egg counts once we started hunting in the morning, wondering if anyone would notice if three or four Cadbury Mini-eggs were missing before the Easter Egg Hunt began.
But fifteen minutes after we’d put our innocent, naive, hopeful little heads to the pillow,the house shook with a gigantic BOOM!
I jumped all the way up to the roof. My heart was running fast as a rabbit, like I’d pumped those Cadbury Mini-eggs straight into my bloodstream. I was diving for cover when the back door banged open and my dad crashed in.
“I got him!” he shouted in his best Elmer Fudd voice (which, if we’re being honest, wasn’t all that Elmer-y, but it was kinda Fuddy). “I got that durned rascal! I shot the Easter Bunny!”
I think my mom nearly had to sleep with my sister after that, she was so upset, but since I was the older (and had watched enough Bugs Bunny to know Elmer Fudd NEVER got him), I just said, “Dad, I thought it was illegal in Illinois to shoot off fireworks.”
And wouldn’t you know, we still had an Easter Egg hunt in the morning, and even though I can’t tell you who found more (*cough* she cheated *cough*), I can tell you I enjoyed my Cadbury Mini-Eggs.