The kids were in bed. I’d made it. The next twenty minutes were mine! All mine! The Easter baskets sat on the dining room table with a carrot for the Easter Bunny to fill up and to nibble (on the latter).

We’d spent the day managing my son’s cold, which sounds like a horse dog’s cough – tos del perro, according to the Ticos. After hours of carrying him to and fro, he finally zonked out at 6:30 while rolling around on the floor listening to the dim chatter of a cartoon. The night ahead would be full of mucous, wheezing, sticky honey tinctures, and pacing the cold tile floor with baby in tow. I rushed to hide the baskets.

Funny thing…I’m not much of an Easter Bunny gal. The French bell sounds intriguing, but this giant bunny that hops around the house. How does he get in? What does he have to do with Jesus? Why doesn’t he leave in any….um…rabbit reminders? Well, I had so much fun filling the basket and buying the little trinkets; I shrugged all the logic off and set off to find better spots for the baskets than last year.

Secure in the thought Coco was brushing her teeth and putting her pajamas on, I found hiding spot number 1 for Addison: in the Tupperware cupboard. Hiding spot number 2 for Coco’s basket: under the small sofa that nobody sits in. Hiding spot number 3 for the nanny: in the toy cupboard. I’d just nibbled on the carrot and was heading back to the refrigerator with the ½ used bag of jelly beans, when….I was busted! Coco stood next to me. I was speechless.

Where are the baskets?

I looked at the table and saw the ½ eaten carrot.

They’re in the front room. Yeah! That’s it! That’s where I put them last year, and I didn’t want to confuse the Bunny.

I ran and grabbed the carrot and held it up high so she wouldn’t see it.

What are you doing with those jelly beans in your hand?

Oh, these? They’re for the guard. Yeah! That’s it! I wanted to give him a bag of jellybeans. Poor guy, he has to work on Easter Sunday.

I looked at the clock. It was 6:40.

Oh my gosh! The Easter Bunny won’t come to children’s house if they know they are up after 6:30!

Panic rushed over Coco’s face.

Quick, I hear something. I said.

She dashed up stairs. We heard the nanny come in. She’d been out all day.

Oh thank goodness, I said. It wasn’t the Easter Bunny.

This is the last year I’m going to get away with this. I’ll probably pay for all this fibbing I’m passing off on my daughter. But, I like call it story telling, imagination, if you will. Maybe, just maybe I missed my calling because I put on one hell of an act.

I snarl, sometimes, about these “traditions,” yet I have to admit – at some point – thrilled that I get to sneak all the black jelly beans.