Tag - Easter

Top 5 Worst Ways to Prove the Easter Bunny Exists

grandpa-as-easter-bunny

If you are considering going above and beyond this Sunday to prove to the kids that the Easter Bunny did, indeed, visit the house, you may want to avoid leaving “clues” like these:

1.  Having the Easter Bunny poop jelly beans.

easter-jellybeans-intoilet

via iVillage

If the kids are young enough to believe this, they are young enough to eat jelly beans out of the toilet.

Hippity Hoppity, Terrifying Easter Bunny Portraits Are on Their Way…

Mall Easter Bunny by day, bank robber by night.

Because what captures the Easter spirit better than a gallery of creepy Easter Bunny pictures…?!

Pink-Bunny

"LET ME GO! NO AMOUNT OF MARSHMALLOW CHICKS IS WORTH THIS!"

Mad-Bunny

Looks like SOMEbunny's got his cottontail in a bunch.

Black-Eyes

On Christmas, naughty kids receive lumps of coal. On Easter...? The Bunny's eyes are made out of them.

Bunny-on-Neck

Just a friendly death-like grip around the kid's neck, that's all!

Bunny-Photobomb

Creepy Easter Bunny photobomb alert!

Pink-Bunny-Lap

I'd be hesitant to jump on that lap, too.

Wonky-Ears

Sure, this bunny may have wonky ears, but at least he has style.

Weird-Bunny2

This costume effort gets an "A" for "awfully creepy."

Weird-Bunny

"Stay right there, my pretty!"

ScaryBunny

Mall Easter Bunny by day, bank robber by night.

Bird-and-Bunny

Forget the penguin, kid -- NEVER, EVER take your eyes off the bunny.

Bunny-Photobomb2

More fun with Creepy Easter Bunny Photobombs.

Pink-Bunny2

This is why you never hire a seamstress with a drinking problem to make your costumes.

Mocking-Bunny

Actually, these two seem to make a good pair.

Bunny-Photobomb3

Mocked by both the Easter Bunny AND Mom. Ouch.

Bunny-with-Dog

Finally -- somebody has captured the Easter spirit! (And I'm not talking about the bunny.)

Baby Shower Games and Other Forms of Torture

easter-2009
25-Week Easter Bump

25-Week Easter Bump

My sister-in-law is generously throwing me a baby shower on the East Coast in a couple of weeks.  I’m not a particularly traditional gal — kept my maiden name; am kinda bummed Baby Girl will have my hubby’s last name; had my two best guy friends stand up for me at my wedding as opposed to a sea of chicks in pastels, much to my grandma’s chagrin; and, well, you get the point — so I naturally requested a co-ed shower AND, this is key, a minimal amount of shower games.  Preferably zero, but my enthusiastic SIL implored me to allow two.  Being the understanding soul that I am, I growled, “Okay, fine.”  It was the least I could do, after all, considering she is even making baby stroller lollipops for the shindig.

I must admit, I am girly enough to appreciate that.  I mean, really, baby stroller lollipops!  How adorable is that?

This kid is turning me into such a sap.

Any-sappy, my sister-in-law recruited the help of my mom and sister to help with the all-important shower game selection process.  I’d already vehemently vetoed the one in which guests GUESS HOW FREAKING BIG YOUR STOMACH IS.  All-caps to emphasize the truly inhumane nature of the “game” or, as I like to call it, pregnant lady torture device.  I can just see it now, people peering at my huge belly and shouting out:

“Five feet around!”

“No, that’s ridiculous.  She’s BIG, but she’s not that big.”

“Four feet?”

“Yeah, that’s more like it.”

Now educated in the field of baby shower games, my mom informed me of another savage game requiring guests to guess which of our traits we would like Baby Girl to inherit.  Um, yeah, THAT’S going to end well.

“Candy’s hair!”

“Candy’s?  Why Candy’s?”  Carl would ask while running to the mirror to look for phantom bald spots.

“Carl’s brains!”

“What, you think I’m stupid or something?” I’d cry, wondering how they knew about that “C” I’d gotten in Economics class.

Trust me, nobody wins in this game.

And, yet, we can’t help but think of what we’d like to pass on to our children, can we?  I may not want other people pointing out Carl’s superior traits — nay, I DEFINITELY do not want that — but Carl and I have dreamily talked about Baby Girl getting his math and science skills, and my language and music talents.  Which, of course, means the poor thing will inherit just the opposite.  But as I watched Mr. Candy consistently clap off-beat at yesterday’s Gospel Brunch at the House of Blues, an oblivious smile of joy on his face, I realized that’s okay, too.

Just as long as nobody’s guessing the circumference of my damn belly, it’s all good.