Do you have a problem with me? Well what a coincidence. I have a problem with you too.

A little boy is running around by the name of Max Arlo. He’s been running in and out of my room and smiling. He occasionally grabs the phone and takes it away with him, which isn’t exactly good. He could dial 911 and we’d be in some major trouble.

So tonight is the eve of a Christian holiday called Easter. When little boys and girls are asleep, a big rabbit poops out eggs with treats inside them all over yards and playgrounds, so that children can go on a hunt for these eggs the next morning. When children set out baskets, the big ‘Bunny’ fills them with a majority of 99% sugar content. (The Easter Bunny and Santa Claus must own stock together, because they always seem to have money for sweets and toys.)

Little girls get new dresses and little boys dress in their finest Easter wear (which is always just like last year, maybe just a size bigger). Girls wear ribbons, boys’ hair is tamed for once, and Mom and Dad intend to keep them dressed that way. Good luck.

In a last ditch attempt to coax me back onto the Christian side, they have instituted ‘Operation Easter Bunny’. This is where my parents fill my old basket up like they have for the past 13 years (I didn’t participated until I was 2) with candy, jewelry, maybe a CD or two. Mom always included a bucket of chalk. Every year, no matter how old, they would get me chalk. I expect this year to be the same.

How do I perceive this? Gifts. Gifts for no other reason than because it’s welcoming spring , the fact that we’re with family, we’re well, and none of us are dead…yet. In other words, gifts for nothing. My family is too perfect, so all of the above are always true.

I’d love to have a feuding mother and father. Maybe then I’d have a reason to hang out with him more often. Perhaps when mom and dad are tearing up the house at each other, I’d be typing this from his laptop. Knowing him, he’d be reading this over my shoulder, asking me questions every so often to understand my dry sense of humor. I'd love to ask him to be with me, but I can't. I'm too shy.

Do you remember when your parents told you that Santa Claus, the Toothfairy, and The Easter Bunny weren’t real? I was eight. Mom pulled me up on her lap, and said “I can’t lie anymore Stephie. Santa Claus doesn’t exist. Neither does the Easter Bunny or Tooth Fairy. It was me and your father.” I was destroyed and I cried for a very long time. Since then, I never really knew whether or not to say thank you when ‘Santa’ brought me something.

I look at Max and he’s only a year and a half, but understands that Easter means presents. I wonder when he’ll know. Will he even care? My little boy. I love him so much, and I can’t begin to imagine him growing up. I’d love to have him stay at this innocent age forever. He can just now say enough, where he’s adorable and you know what he’s saying. I’d love to keep him in Neverland.