Here comes Peter Cottontail, hopping down the bunny trail, hippity hoppity Easter’s on its way… I admit this cute little jingle isn’t as irritating as the eight thousand different versions of the same five Christmas songs, but that could only be because there is no Easter station starting on Valentine’s Day. Praise the rabbit. While I celebrate Easter in the religious sense, (the senseless way in which I’ll be squeezed into a church pew wearing a dress that will be way too festive for our weather patterns, I mean,) it’s the social construction of the holiday that has me a little confused.

“But Kate!” You all cry out in despair, “What’s not to love about chocolate, rabbits, and chocolate rabbits?” Please, don’t get me wrong North Penn, I absolutely love chocolate, any animal of the fluffy variety, and chocolate flavored fluffy animals. I’m not a monster, and I understand why rabbits have become the spokesbunnies of Easter, (they’re all over the place as soon as spring rolls around) but I just don’t get the concept of The Easter Bunny.

I’m sure for many of you the thought of letting a fat man in red suit down your chimney was slightly unsettling. Or maybe this was a common occurrence in your part of town; you have to do what you need to express yourself. But just as we complacently hang our stockings by the chimney with care, so too do we fill our Easter baskets with stupidly annoying festive Easter grass that goes just about everywhere except in your basket. And why do we do this? Because Peter Hanesbottom is going to enter our houses and leave behind eggs.

I don’t even know where to start with this.

First, I get that Santa can come down through the chimney. He’s a human. But who lets the rabbits in? The same guy who lets the dogs out? Do they need a special door? It’s not like they have opposable thumbs to just jimmy open a lock or break open a window. Some people don’t even let their domesticated pets sleep inside but can be found eagerly await the arrival of Easter’s greatest financial investment. (You’d think I’d mean Jesus, but it ain’t the third day yet.)

Thus begs the question of how the eggs and candy even get into our own baskets. Who knows if the force is strong with these rabbits, or if they just nudge everything along with their noses?  Where have those noses been anyway? Hollywood tells us that the Easter Bunny is not the size of your average bunny, bordering even with human proportions, but think about that: a rabbit the size of your dad. I’ve seen Wallace and Grommet and the Curse of the Wererabbit. Let’s just say it didn’t end well for the wererabbit.

But supposedly good old Peter Clothbum is one smart fellow, or else millions of kids would wake up ornery and eggless, and that’s just a cruel, cruel yolk. But can someone please explain to me why the Easter Bunny leaves eggs? I refuse to believe that no one has pointed this out and petition to have a designated Easter Chickie instead. Biologically it would make more sense, unless the Easter Bunny has some long running vendetta against hens in which case Easter just got way more interesting. And I can’t forget about jellybeans – as a general principle, I dislike them. But on Easter, I loathe them. Little, round, hard pieces of “candy” dropped off the night before by rabbit? I’m thinking apposable thumbs were of no issue in this delivery, if you catch my drift.

But regardless, North Penn, the next six days are yours to spend however you please, whether that’s some much needed hibernation or picking Easter grass out of your carpet for five of those days. I trust you’ll make the most of our time apart, but for now, I hope all you have an eggcellent spring break.

**Editor’s note: the drop-off box for unwanted chocolate bunnies will be promptly positioned outside room K24 on March 29^th