Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
[checks phone] The kids’ school. Oh, shit. What did they do? Who’s throwing up?
It was the guidance counselor, and after assuring me nothing was wrong, he shared his predicament. The annual Easter egg hunt is tomorrow, and the high schooler who normally dresses up as the stuffed bunny—he bailed.
They needed a hero. Or a fool.
Either way, I was their guy. For those who know me (or deny knowing me), I’m not graceful, dignified or elegant. Instead, think flamboyant, obnoxious and bombastic. In other words, ideal casting for one of the top two holiday mascots. Santa is the easy winner here, but Cupid, leprechauns, turkeys and fireworks are just too generic.
Plus, every preschooler would get meet the bunny and get a special treat in return for all the eggs they found—including my 5-year-old daughter Ella. How often does one have the opportunity to interact with a family member completely in disguise? Wait, maybe don’t answer that question.
I showed up to school fully stretched and focused. Accepting the duties like a similar “cast member” down the road at Disney World, I took an oath of silence and practiced my exaggerated dramatizations. The guidance counselor thanked me profusely, appreciative of a parent too oblivious to decline the unheralded role. He lugged a large box from a classroom closet, pulling out a (kinda) white, fluffy suit. A full body ensemble complete with a back zipper and pink underbelly accompanied a set of fingerless mittens and oversized shoes (paws?). And, of course, a giant, whiskered, flappy-eared head with eyes as soulless as night.
The costume’s smell was exactly what you’d expect: sophomore sweat, indignity and a hint of Axe body spray. I slipped on each piece with an actor’s sense of pride, preparing for the role of my life. The head twisted perfectly onto the hare’s shoulders and I took my first view through the eyes of my pastel rodent. My Hamlet, if you will.
And then I took this selfie:
“Ouch.” I hopped into the door frame as I was led out of the room, and that was the last time I would break character. Into the library I was led, flooded by memories of my own schooling experience. The familiar smell of paper pages, the shine of miniature plastic chairs, and the softness of colorful rugs where I always struggled to sit criss-cross-apple-sauce.
A few teachers hid eggs around the room as I awaited the onslaught of youngsters ready to fulfill dreams of meeting one of their childhood idols. Oh, if they only realized who lived beyond the mask, the disappointment would be unparalleled. The door creaked open and it was go time. I hopped. I waved. I even thumped. Their eyes lit up to the joy of the hunt, all overseen by the bunny du jour.
One by one, each boy and girl came up to me with their filled baskets and mouths agape. Their reactions up close ranged from the practical (“It’s just a dude in a suit.”) to the wondrous (“How did you have time to hide eggs for us when you have to go all over the world?”). Some were brave, high-fiving and hugging. Others were scared as hell, maintaining a solid social distance and skeptical glance. Then came Ella.
She stared into my whiskered countenance, almost familiar with my new rabbit aura. It took all of me not to whip that head off and greet her with a fatherly yell, but I maintained my composure (mostly because I was deathly afraid of creating a traumatic lifelong experience for one of the other tykes). I presented her treat to a smile and nod, and off she went. About 60 kids had the same routine and, all of a sudden, my script had ended.
Dripping sweat and nursing a tender hamstring from the continuous hopping, I bounced back to the movie star trailer storage closet and changed into my Clark Kent alias. I was proud of my work. Oscar-worthy? Probably not. But dad-worthy? Definitely.
Hours later, Ella came bounding through the house into my office. “I met the Easter bunny!” she said. “And I found eggs and I got this treat and it was awesome.” Feigning surprise, I inquired about the bunny’s skills, kindness and fun. “Meh,” she answered. “He smelled a little.”
And just like that, my eggs-traordinary adventure was over. Next stop: the North Pole.
[Editor’s Note: If any of my daughters read this before high school, I made it all up.]