Questions you never thought you’d have to answer

Come on, come on. This red light is taking way too long.

I do a double take in my rearview mirror.

There’s a six-foot tall, broad framed guy standing on the main street corner of our small, family-friendly, stand-up-community, wearing a pink Easter Bunny suit.

He’s jumping up and down, madly waving at the passing cars, trying to get them into a Chocolaterie.  Or a Subway restaurant. What he’s selling is not completely clear.

What is clear is the guy is not having a Joyeuse Paques. I almost expect him to say,
“You lookin’ at me? You lookin’ at ME?”

Our four-year-old daughter doesn’t need a rearview mirror. From where she sits in her comfy car seat, he’s precisely in her line of view.  However, she’s more excited about the balloons tied around the corner lamppost than the guy in the bunny suit doing some silly dance.

“Oh, balloons!” she says gleefully, and I breathe a sigh of relief, thinking I’ve once again avoided answering questions I don’t want to answer.

You know, “Why’s the Easter Bunny standing on a street corner? Or “Why’s Santa look different in this mall?”

Then I notice the guy in the suit isn’t jumping anymore. He isn’t waving, either.

He’s leaning against the lamppost. He’s on his break.

The light turns green. Not fast enough.

“Mommy?” I hear her small voice hesitate, then gain power as she formulates the difficult question in her mind.

“Mommy? Why is there smoke coming out of the Easter Bunny’s mouth?”

Perspective

Sick kid. Snow day.
Six-feet of white flakes at the end of
our driveway. At minus 30
with the wind chill,
my little one and I can only stand
and stare out the frosted panes.
I sigh:  boring day ahead.
“Cooold” she mumbles,
then sneezes and stumbles off,
drunken sailor style.

At nap time I check my email.
Good news: my interview with the
Peat-Bog Mummy researcher
is on for next week. Another hour
writing about spiders gives me shivers.
I set it aside, go make green tea,
wake my groggy girl.

Let’s make a lovely dress for Cinderelley, Cinderelley
Bippitty Boppitty Bippitty Boppitty Bippitty Boppitty
I might be sick myself if I have to hear that song
one more time today. Tick tick tick. 4 p.m.
Just three more hours, then Daddy’s home.
Perchance to sleep? Perchance to
soak in a bath with bubbles.

Before logging off for the day
I Google “Women in Iraq,”
Click on the daily Iraq Violence Report.
57 civilians killed in Iraq today alone,
most of them women and children.

My daughter’s small voice
singing in my memory, I read on:
Many Iraqi women have never worn
that smothering, submissive scarf,
but now, dead bodies of women and girls
are being found in rivers, on waste grounds;
veils tied tightly around their heads:
a clear message from extremists.

My cheeks kiss a soft pillow;
My own message clear.
Amen for sick days, for snow days,
for bubbles and Bippitty Bop.

Amen for boring.