Easter: Hunting Wabbits Is Dangerous - March 18, 2013

Easter: Hunting Wabbits Is DangerousWhen I was very young, back when little, black backpacks and scrunchies were still acceptable, I remember attending the Tibetan Freedom Concert.  There were so many A-list bands playing that they had two stages set-up side-by-side, to decrease the wait time between sets.  Fans would glide back-n-forth on their tip toes, cartoon-style, as soon as the previous band exited the stage.

 

Punk and rock concerts were like Christmas, Easter and Halloween all wrapped up into one.  The treats were the bands and the beer and the mosh pits were the community Easter Egg Hunts.  If you were willing to weather all of the pushing and shoving, you could get close enough to make eye contact with the band members.   For a kid, it was like finding the golden egg that offered the grand prize.

 

I was never brave enough and always wished I had a pair of binoculars on hand.  I’d glue my back to the walls of the small venues and climb to the balconies of the big ones.  No golden egg for me.

 

The mosh pits resembled a war zone.  Participants would exit the circular, death trap with bloody scratches, broken limbs and large welts.  For me, the prize just didn’t equate the pain.

 

Well, at the Tibetan Freedom Concert, I forgot about the mosh pit because the music flipped a quick switch from The Fugees to Rage Against the Machine.  I got stuck in the shuffle.  Some guy resembling a linebacker latched his arm into the band of my little, black backpack and swung me around with him.  I was dizzy and ready to let go of my pack and be trampled, when a friend picked me up, pushed through the crowd and dropped me into the safe zone.  None of the other concertgoers were even fazed that they were pulling around a 100-pound girl in her little, black backpack.  To them, I was simply a necessary casualty in their quest for the golden egg.

 

After having Babyface, my hearing was restored and the treats became the sugary leftovers that she would gather at Easter Egg Hunts or from grandparents.  Babyface isn’t picky about her chocolate.  She’s fine with the mainstream kind that can be bought at any local, grocery store.  So, if someone ever gives her a box of gourmet chocolates, we practice our counting or math and she divides the pieces into a Babyface and a Mommy pile.  It the one-for-me, two-for-you, tasty lesson plan.  Mommy gets two pieces for every one that Babyface gets because she’s twice as big, right?

 

Last year, we decided to attend a community Easter Egg Hunt on a local, downtown street.  All of the kids were required to wait behind a long line until a bell sounded.  Once the bell rang, the chaos for candy commenced.  Bigger kids were running in front of smaller kids to snatch eggs from right in front of them.  Cries and screams reminded me of a rock concert, The Ramones blaring in my head.  Finally, my husband picked up Babyface and I just handed her some eggs to put into her basket.  My husband was her savior, just as my friend had been at that Tibetan Freedom Concert.  She didn’t get the golden egg, but she came out in piece.

 

This year, I’ll just buy her some gourmet goods online, finish our math lesson and let her run around in circles after her sugar rush.  It’s much less dangerous and everyone comes out a winner, including Mommy.  The only violence will be in the form of eating chocolate bunny parts.

 

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