Gender bunny

Don’t ask me how I get myself into these situations, but recently I found myself discussing the gender of the Easter bunny amongst colleagues and even friends.

I had no idea there was even a debate on such an issue. Isn’t it obvious? The Easter bunny is a male. I can prove it.

First off, the Easter bunny leaves all the shopping for the big Easter egg hunt up to me. There is an unspoken rule that because I birthed the children, I am forever more responsible for thinking of all the cool and clever ways to make every holiday from Valentine’s Day through to Christmas a time of special memories for them, while staying on budget.

And he knows I will do it because if I don’t, the kids will get a package of gum from the variety store. Yep, that bunny knows me and I know him.

The big rabbit wakes up early on Easter Sunday and runs about the house discretely hiding the candy egg treasures. My house looks like the remnants of a plastic grass and tinfoil land mine that went off in colourful splendour.

Then he sits back and takes all the credit for my thoughtful treats, watching my kids reach their ultimate sugar high until you can literally feel the tempo of the house pound like a nightclub.

There is nothing left but wrapper carnage and I can be sure the vacuum isn’t going to get it all, but the cat will, which leads to other plastic grass treasures coughed up on my carpet later.

Of course, when it is time for the sugar crash and the tidy up, the Easter bunny will need a nap. Big surprise. I suspect he will be in a Toblerone coma for at least two hours before golf is on television. I say that because I am sure the Easter bunny likes the same chocolate and cable programming as the Carpenter does.

Am I the only one who thinks the mere fact that the Easter bunny hops everywhere is proof he must be a man. Only a man bunny can hop around without peeing his pants. If I had to hop about after having a litter of baby bunnies, I’d be wearing Depends. Go ahead girls; give it a try. That’s right, you wouldn’t do it either. Besides, you just wouldn’t have the time. You’d be in the line up buying the chocolate foil eggs. Somebody has to do it.

Now, it may seem as if I am personifying the big rabbit as a metaphorical description of my spouse, the Carpenter, but I have no idea where you would get that idea (cough), as they bear no comparison to one another whatsoever, except for maybe the large ears (giggle).

While I mock the great traditions of the festive rabbit, I love him – the bunny I mean – despite the temptation of chocolate that follows in his wake and threatens to ruin all efforts for my spring detox plan, which only goes to further my argument. No female bunny in her right mind would eat chocolate and prance around in big ears and a tail, despite the Playboy-inspired fantasies of men like the Carpenter. It just wouldn’t happen.

If the Easter bunny were a woman, she’d hoard the eggs in her underwear drawer and hide all evidence of wrappers carefully and she would never, ever share. Duh.


Kelly Waterhouse