They say Christmas gets all the glory—but in our house, Easter was the real showstopper. And not just because of the chocolate (though let’s be honest, that certainly sweetened the deal). Easter had its own rituals, rules, and a distinct flair for fashion—especially if you were a little girl armed with white gloves and a hat you could only wear on Sundays.
When I was a kid, Easter Sunday always meant heading to church in something brand new. A fresh hat, shiny shoes, a frilly dress, maybe even a matching purse if you were lucky—it didn’t matter what it was, as long as it was crisp, clean, and never before seen. The tradition of wearing your “Easter best” goes all the way back to Europe, where it symbolized spring’s arrival and Easter’s deeper meaning: renewal and resurrection.
The custom hopped over to North America in the 1880s and reached peak popularity in the late 1940s—just after the war, when the world needed all the hope and fresh starts it could get. I can still hear my dad humming, “Put on your Easter bonnet with all the frills upon it…”
By the late 1950s, dressing to the nines on Easter Sunday had mostly faded in our little community—but I’m grateful I got to be part of it while it lasted.
Fast-forward a few decades. Outfits may be more casual now, but Easter Sunday still holds its place as a meaningful milestone for many families. Church services, chocolate bunnies, baskets stuffed with candy, chaotic egg hunts, and the occasional parent sneakily slipping in a book or puzzle as a sugar-free peace offering—it’s all part of the modern Easter package.
I have especially fond memories of Easter mornings with our two kids, Tammy and Steven. And let me tell you—those two were deeply committed to the Easter Bunny’s annual appearance. That bunny had tenure.
When they were little, the baskets were found within minutes of waking up. Breakfast? Not a chance. Chocolate reigned supreme. As they grew, I got sneaky. The baskets were hidden—just enough to make it a game, not enough to spark a meltdown.
Then came the teenage years. Along with the eye-rolling and sarcasm came an unspoken rule: the Easter Bunny must still show up. So, I raised the bar. If they wanted a chocolate breakfast, they’d have to earn it. The night before, I’d channel my inner Sphinx and craft a series of riddles. Clues layered with subtle hints—and the occasional cheeky life lesson—led them on an epic hunt. The first clue led to the second, the second to the third… you get the idea. I usually wrapped things up around clue number eight or nine, depending on how much creative juice I had left after cleaning the kitchen.
Tammy’s clue might read: “A place Tammy does not know exists.” (Answer: the dishwasher.)
Steven’s? “A hanger-less closet.” (Answer: under his bed.)
These scavenger hunts became as much a tradition as the baskets themselves—part mystery, part mischief, part mom-therapy.
Of course, as the kids got older—and increasingly attuned to the strange mechanics of my mind—it became harder to stump them. That poor bunny was running out of tricks. She was ready for early retirement. But, alas, there was no pension plan. So off she went, clipboard in paw, once again.
Then came their twenties—and spouses. Suddenly, the Easter Bunny’s workload doubled. Four baskets to fill, four sets of adult expectations, and still just one woman with a bag of chocolate and a head full of half-baked riddles. At that point, I dropped the pretense. The baskets were unceremoniously plunked on the dining table in plain view, like a clearance sale at the chocolate shop. The Bunny was scaling back. She had earned it.
But then, along came the grandkids. Real, actual, sticky-fingered, laughter-filled little humans. Suddenly, Easter wasn’t about winding things down—it was about starting fresh. With grandkids now in the picture, there were new baskets to fill, new squeals of delight to follow. And the riddles? Oh, they came back—this time a little simpler, a little sillier, and just as joyfully received.
And isn’t that what Easter is really about? Renewal, joy, and passing along the love—wrapped in pastel paper, tied up with ribbon, and maybe smeared with a bit of melted chocolate.
Wishing you a joyous Easter, filled with hope that blooms fresh each spring, laughter that echoes through generations, and the kind of love that even a seasoned bunny can’t quite explain.
