I hate to be a stick in the mud, but after countless conversations with a diverse group of parents and some thoughtful introspection on my part, I’ve come to the conclusion that as a society, we’ve lost our collective mind.
And I’m seriously upset at how our culture has dominated the experience I’m trying to give my children around holidays and celebrations. At the risk of sounding like your grandmother, kids these days don’t know how good they’ve got it.
But it’s not their fault. It’s ours.
Consumerism and commercialism have not only taken over Christmas, they’ve bled into other calendar “holidays” including Valentine’s Day, Halloween, and as recently evidenced: Easter.
Easter is intended to be a celebration of rebirth. Regardless of whether you consider this an honouring of spring or that of Jesus, Eastertime is a colourful and festive occasion suited for reflection and merriment: shared meals; a chocolate-laden visit from the Easter bunny or a jovial hunt for decorated eggs; and, for many, a visit to church.
What I don’t understand is how Easter (and every other holiday) has become a minimum week-long affair that permeates daily routine including school, sports or music lessons, and even a trip to the bank.
Why, during these times, is virtually every adult suddenly compelled to feed my children copious amounts of sugar?
Is it not enough to await a visit from the Easter bunny and hunt for colourful eggs scattered around the house (I grew up in Winnipeg, where there are only rivers of salty, sandy slush outside this time of year), and maybe a trip to church?
It was a big deal to wake up early those mornings and track the lengthy and very humourous notes our favourite bunny Bert would leave throughout the house, leading us from one place to the next with ridiculous clues until we would hit the jackpot and discover our baskets replete with chocolate bunnies and invariably new socks/underwear, in the clothes dryer or high on top of a bookshelf.
We would spend the day eating and then ultimately trying not to finish every last morsel. My sister and I would hang out in our pajamas, periodically finding another one of the coloured eggs we had dyed the day before, tucked away in a plant or in the stack of firewood at the hearth. We’d have dinner with our grandparents on the cushy velvet chairs in the formal dining room – reserved for special occasions.
These memories are vivid and full of sentiment, and ones I am trying to recreate for my own children. But it’s getting harder and harder when I have to compete with endless amounts of candy being handed out every day leading up to Sunday, colossal “Easter egg hunts” on soccer pitches – really, is there any hunting involved aside from finding safe proximity from fellow scavengers determined to get more than their fair share and take down any toddler in their way? – and somewhat terrifying looking bunny mascots roving for photo ops?
I’ll take my Easter straight up please, within a sane 12-hour day, and preferably with some sense of meaning that we, as parents, can impart.
Now, if you’ll just pass me one of those chocolate eggs… and my can of Ensure with which to wash it down.
