As a small child, I loved Easter. My family wasn’t particularly religious so my only obligation for this holiday was to create an Easter basket pretty enough and big enough to house my chocolate bunny and assorted treats the bunny would leave behind. Usually socks and a set of jacks. Sprinkled liberally with those foil-wrapped chocolate eggs that now remind me of the moose shit I have to clean off my lawn every damn week in the summer.

Yummy. You haven’t lived until you step into a pile of moose turds.

Things changed as I became an adult and a parent. Not only did the little foil-wrapped chocolates lose their appeal, but suddenly I was responsible for filling the Easter baskets, not just gnawing on the chocolate bunny. There was also the matter of me becoming a Christian and suddenly this holiday actually has a meaning beyond a little rabbit shitting out chocolate eggs for kids to eat.

Now Easter means dipping hardboiled eggs into the vinegary dye, after an Easter egg search and basket hunt where Boo and I try desperately to outwit our cunning little children, all while thanking our Lord and feeling guilty for not attending the local church service in favour of sleeping late and um, fornicating like rabbits.

Since my Shalebug died, all holidays have lost a little of their holiday sheen. Now as the kids hunt for their colourful eggs and gnaw on their chocolate bunnies, I am bogged down with sadness and mired in memories from the past, unable to truly enjoy the moment.

It seems as though my Bug hopped off with my holiday heart and left behind little moose turds in it’s wake. Bugger. It is hard to truly enjoy the moment when I worry constantly that he will forget me, or resent me, or worse yet, that it’s truly over, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and I will never have another moment to tell him how much I loved his stinky, drooling, hair-touching ways.

It sucks the holiday joy right out of a mom. It’s right about this moment that my faith steps in and kicks into auto-drive. That and my anti-depressants. Together, they work like magic and prevent that blanket of grief from smothering the joy right out of me.

I wish I could say I was finding it easier as the grains of time slipped through my hourglass. This is the second Easter I will face without having a 30 pound sack of drooling child attached to my hip. The second Easter where I won’t have to find non-edible treats to put into a basket for a child who can’t eat. The second Easter where my son and daughter will dye their eggs and reminisce about their brother, and then break down with a sadness that I can never completely hug away.

Sometimes it really sucks being the mommy.

This year though, things have shifted a half degree. The binds of grief have loosened a fraction around our hearts, allowing us to breathe just a tad easier. Memories of the Bug aren’t as painful, even if they are just as vivid. The longing for him is worse, but our tears have dried some. I anticipate a good-sized chocolate bunny and a well-filled basket will help smooth some of the bumps an Easter with one less will bring.

After all, we are bruised but not broken. And the Easter bunny hops on for everyone. Even the grief stricken. And this year, the Easter bunny hopped a little earlier for Boo and I.

Yesterday, we received a phone call from our adoption case worker Easter bunny to inform us that she will be by on Tuesday to finish the paperwork for our adoption. Which means, by the end of this month we will be approved (finally) and free to start shopping for a child child matching.

I may get my kid before the end of the school year yet. How’s that for a well filled Easter basket?

As I phoned my darling Boo to tell him the good news and have him yank me down from the stratosphere of happiness, I noticed he was remaining a little quiet while I gushed on about great timing, kids names and my love of all government employees in general.

“What’s the matter Boo? Have you changed your mind? Do you still want to adopt?” I tell you dear internet, my heart froze with fear at this possibility.

“Not that at all. I’m really excited. I am just a little worried.”

“Worried? About what? The home assessment is a formality. You and I both know they will try to toss as many handicapped kids at us as humanely possible, just to get them out of the system. We are a gold mine to these people. What’s to worry about?”

Now, I’m concerned. I’m running through all the various scenarios that we could face and I still can’t see why we wouldn’t be approved to adopt a munchkin. I’ll keep my nipple rings covered and my tattoo hidden. Surely they will overlook a little silver hoop in the nose.

My house will be cleaned, the kids at school (thank God, so they won’t tell the lady I make them drink out of the toilet bowl when they are thirsty) and I will refrain from cussing like the redneck I am. What could go wrong, I think.

“I’m just a little concerned she may find your blog. And then, you know. Read it.”

SHIT.

I’m fucking doomed. I may have to settle for foil wrapped moose turds after all.