Eggs

by crobertson

I am always thinking of traditions.  Traditions that my Mom experienced.  Traditions that I have experienced.  Traditions that my husband has experienced.  As Easter approaches, I am thinking of traditions once again.  As Braeden sleeps in his car seat, I tell my husband about the new idea I have for our Easter tradition.

Bringing him back to a conversation I had with my Mom years ago (and nearly every year since) about Easter.  My Grandpa (and yes, I’ve always called him Grandpa not Grandfather…that says something) had a tradition every Easter.  My Mom reminiscences about it often.  As I said, nearly every year.

She distinctively remembers getting something different every Easter.

A bunny.  Big, small, plastic, stuffed animal, chocolate, it didn’t matter what form or size.  Every year the “Easter Bunny” left her a different bunny,  making sure to never duplicate.  Now, the “Easter Bunny” doesn’t exist long in a child’s life, so I’m sure she never had a room filled with bunnies.  But what I enjoy most about this tradition is the memories.  The traditions have memories glued to them.  You can’t have one without the other.

“So I was thinking of something.  Something that could be passed down.”

“Eggs.”

Puzzled, he looks in my direction.  And I explain.

Every year Braeden will find a special egg from the Easter Bunny.  An egg that is different.  Special.  Unique.  Stands out in the crowd.  Just like he does.

Every year Braeden will find a special egg from the Easter Bunny.  An egg that inside will house a seed.  That inside will house new life.  Just like he does.

Every year Braeden will find a special egg from the Easter Bunny.  An egg that he can set aside.  Gluing memories of his childhood.

And if he chooses.

Can pass the eggs, the tradition, down to his children.

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