<--Huh, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there really IS a Passover Bunny!
Somewhere, in a past life, Mark must have been a prince. Not a king, mind you, who ruled his people with wisdom and a strong but fair hand...no, just a prince, who lived in the lap of luxury and thrived, as servants brought him whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it.
That's the only explanation I have for him. He's never happy with what he gets, be it candy, TV time, or video games, because he knows somewhere out there, some other kid still has more.
Take Easter, for example. We'll be on vacation this year, so I explained sadly that Mark won't get an Easter basket (I don't think he even believes in the bunny anymore, but he isn't going to turn away a basket full of candy!).
"But don't worry," I told him, playing up the good news. "Because you'll get more than enough chocolate--we'll be in Hershey, Pennsylvania, on Easter!"
Now, any normal kid would whoop and holler with joy at that sentence. Any kid other than Mark, that is.
"What!" he complained. "Rip off!"
"What do you mean, rip-off?" I said, indignantly. "You'll be in the town that chocolate BUILT! Even the street lights are Hershey Kisses!"
Mark was quiet for a moment. I thought he was contemplating this, but I was wrong. He was trying to work his way around it.
"I can just leave a basket here," he said. "The Easter Bunny can fill it up, and I can eat it when I get home."
"Your cats would eat it all," I answered.
"Yeah," he admitted. Then he lit up and said, "Oooooh, how about if I put my basket on the front porch?"
That's the only explanation I have for him. He's never happy with what he gets, be it candy, TV time, or video games, because he knows somewhere out there, some other kid still has more.
Take Easter, for example. We'll be on vacation this year, so I explained sadly that Mark won't get an Easter basket (I don't think he even believes in the bunny anymore, but he isn't going to turn away a basket full of candy!).
"But don't worry," I told him, playing up the good news. "Because you'll get more than enough chocolate--we'll be in Hershey, Pennsylvania, on Easter!"
Now, any normal kid would whoop and holler with joy at that sentence. Any kid other than Mark, that is.
"What!" he complained. "Rip off!"
"What do you mean, rip-off?" I said, indignantly. "You'll be in the town that chocolate BUILT! Even the street lights are Hershey Kisses!"
Mark was quiet for a moment. I thought he was contemplating this, but I was wrong. He was trying to work his way around it.
"I can just leave a basket here," he said. "The Easter Bunny can fill it up, and I can eat it when I get home."
"Your cats would eat it all," I answered.
"Yeah," he admitted. Then he lit up and said, "Oooooh, how about if I put my basket on the front porch?"
"Then ANTS will get it," I said. "And the candy will melt. Did you miss the part where I said you'll be in Chocolate Town that day??"
"We can bring the baskets with us," he said, hopefully.
"No, Kelley and Rob are Jewish," I said. "They don't have an EASTER Bunny! Plus, it's Passover, so the bunny couldn't bring the good stuff, anyway. It's not kosher."
And before he could ask, I assured him there was no Passover Bunny.
"What if--" he started, but I cut him off. I'd had enough.
"No," I said. "Whatever you are about to say--just, NO. You will be in Hershey, you will not bring a basket, you will eat chocolate, you will be happy about it. End of story." And then I stomped out of the room.
"Geez," I heard Mark mutter in the other room.
I could tell he was already re-writing the whole story in his head, assigning himself the leading role as the Poor Victim Child, and me the role of the Wicked Mother. Someday, I will listen to Mark whine about the year I deprived him an Easter basket, and what an incredibly mean mom I was. He's a good storyteller, and people will actually feel sorry for poor Mark when they hear it.
"We can bring the baskets with us," he said, hopefully.
"No, Kelley and Rob are Jewish," I said. "They don't have an EASTER Bunny! Plus, it's Passover, so the bunny couldn't bring the good stuff, anyway. It's not kosher."
And before he could ask, I assured him there was no Passover Bunny.
"What if--" he started, but I cut him off. I'd had enough.
"No," I said. "Whatever you are about to say--just, NO. You will be in Hershey, you will not bring a basket, you will eat chocolate, you will be happy about it. End of story." And then I stomped out of the room.
"Geez," I heard Mark mutter in the other room.
I could tell he was already re-writing the whole story in his head, assigning himself the leading role as the Poor Victim Child, and me the role of the Wicked Mother. Someday, I will listen to Mark whine about the year I deprived him an Easter basket, and what an incredibly mean mom I was. He's a good storyteller, and people will actually feel sorry for poor Mark when they hear it.
Until...I whip out a photo of 12-year-old Mark, face smeared with chocolate, standing in front of a sign that says "Welcome to Hershey, PA!"
I may even have a second picture of Mark the day after, with a chocolate hangover, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, one hand over his upset belly, the other pushing away the huge chocolate bar I'm offering him.
I will say, "Take THAT, my poor, deprived son! THIS was the year with no Easter basket!"
And the Easter spirit will live on.
I will say, "Take THAT, my poor, deprived son! THIS was the year with no Easter basket!"
And the Easter spirit will live on.
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