Peeps Must Die

We are a family of intelligent people.  It is shocking, then, to realize how long it took everyone to figure out how Bunny Day should really run when the ratio of grandsons to granddaughters is 3:1.  (I'm not the only one raising a litter of pup . . . er . . . boys)

Back up the boat, you say.  Bunny Day? Did I miss a memo on the list of holiday options? The answer is, "Possibly, yes." It stems from the basic childhood question: Which came first, the bunny or the egg?  And how does Jesus fit in the whole Easter egg thing? 

A recent conversation between Jonathan and Matthew shows the mental confusion that happens with the convoluted elements of this holiday. 

Jonathan: "So the Easter Bunny lays eggs?"

Matthew: "No, the Easter Bunny lays jelly beans."

Jonathan: "No, the Easter Bunny poops jelly beans."

Matthew: "Well then who lays easter eggs? Santa?"

Jonathan: "That's just dumb."

Ya, but Easter Bunnies pooping jelly beans isn't.  And I think my taste for jelly beans has disappeared.  Odd.

Anyway, we just made two different holidays out of Easter.  Saturday before Easter is Bunny Day -- spring, egg hunts, gobs of candy, the works.  Sunday is Easter.  Yes, I know nearly everything about the configuration of Easter stems from pagan history, spring equinox, phases of the moon, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah.  The point of Sunday is Jesus, no matter how you configure the day on which Easter is celebrated.  No wonder my kids can't remember that Christmas is always December 25.  That's just waaaayyy too easy.  You don't even have to factor in Leap Year.  In fact, I think someone should author some legislation here.  The Holiday Reform Act.  All holidays happen on the 15th of the month, no matter what.  No more of this 4th phase of the moon except if it's a Sunday then we add a day and skip the third Wednesday and whateverrrrr.  And some months are getting too crowded so SOMETHING has to get moved to August, except that that is kinda the unofficial Vacation Month, so we might not want to mess with that.  Hmm.  I sense I might be slipping from the point . . .

Ahem.

Grandma had a BRAINSTORM last year.   Recall the grandson to granddaughter ratio.  Also, there was the burgeoning number of pre-teens/actual teens to consider.  Standard candy hunts were soo 5 minutes ago.  Snooze-errific.  Dumb. Thus, the PEEPS WAR was begun.

Peeps, the ultimate Easter Bunny poo of candy.  It's processed chemical sugar covered by granulated sugar.  And they look like neon dog turds.  But add three dots for a face and PRESTO! It's a Peep.  Even as a kid, I didn't like them.

And now, once each year, the fruit of my loins straps on their (nerf) armor and does battle with the fruit of the sugar conglomerate industry's loins.  Somehow, that just sounds . . . wrong.

To continue.  Roll film . . . (There might possibly be some artistic license at play here. Just a little.)

It generally happens around mid-afternoon.  As we play with our delightful children in their perfectly clean and pressed walking outfits, identifying flower species and cataloging bird song in the realm of grandmother's backyard, the first shot is taken.  WE never start the war.  It's always the Peeps.

A malted robins egg is thrown and hits my sister's youngest! A cowardly act, going for the young and the weak.  But what else would you expect from a Peep.

Our manly sons instantly answer the call and take up their positions in defense of their mothers.  Sniff.  So proud!  And the battle begins!

Artillery sprays of M&Ms barrage the young men, who answer with round after round of nerf darts.  Marshmallow egg grenades fall heavily and our wounded, sticky from the blast, seek safety in the baby pool.  The boys break out the mini mallow shooters and the snipers go to work.  Yellow and pink globs fall to the ground, but they aren't surrendering yet!

We can feel the tremors in the ground long before we see the ranks marching up the hill.  The chocolate bunny brigades!  And they have the bite-size candy bar bazookas.  I can smell fear creeping in the ranks.  We must be strong now!  This is no time for hesitation, we bring out the big guns!

THE POTATO CANNON.  King of the boys, Uncle David strides into the line of fire, the bulk of the weapon strapped to his shoulder.  One swing and the cannon is steadied and ready to fire.

But wait! A scream rises from inside the house!

THE PEEPS HAVE TAKEN GRANDMA HOSTAGE!!  Unbeknownst to us, the Peeps have forged an alliance with the stuffed animal menagerie!  And now they have captured the queen!  She lays bound by their chains of oppression (ignore the snoring, I swear she is oppressed) awaiting rescue!  Wo wo is us!

But hark!  Heavy is the tread of justice!  For here comes GRANDPA!  He fears no candy, stays no hand of snacking in the rescue of his queen!  With one great motion, Grandma is freed ("Sarah, wake up, the kids want more candy") and Uncle David frees his wrath up on the Peeps!  We are saved and the Peeps are defeated!

Or something like that.  Till next year folks, snack strong!