The Easter Bunny Practices Safe Sex

“What’s up with the Easter Bunny this year?” my 15-year-old asked, fishing a latex condom from his Easter basket. Its black wrapper read Lifestyles, vanilla, and sat between the Sour Patch Bunnies and Reese's Pieces, nestled inconspicuously in the Scooby Doo basket. Then he pulled out two more: strawberry and fantasy.

Feigning surprise and a hint of embarrassment, I couldn’t help but add, “Who knew the Easter Bunny practiced safe sex? Have you seen all those rabbits hopping around?” 

I took a quick sip of coffee to conceal my smirk. Admit nothing, deny everything, and make counteraccusations has always been my tradecraft, former CIA operative or not. 

“Where’s the Magnums?” my son asked, as he fished for more loot at the bottom of the basket. 

Shock at the size of his vocabulary, not the girth of his imagination, made me up the ante. 

“Guess the Easter Bunny doesn’t want you screwing like rabbits!” I said deadpan, which was more G-rated than the profanity-laced remark I’d made earlier to my husband. 

Kids these days know a hell of a lot more than we ever did, thanks to social media, and I’d concluded that my parents’ “keep your legs crossed” strategy was not exactly a fail-safe.

Magnums, my ass. I had no choice but to call his bluff.

“This morning I saw the Schnoodles chase a rabbit through the wrought-iron fence into our neighbor’s yard, and he dropped a basket chock-full of multicolored condoms,” I continued. That cracked a smile.

“Don’t you remember the Santa Condoms?” I asked. “You put them on the dog’s paws and tried to blow them up like party balloons,” I said. 

Mayzie's paw was protected.

During the pandemic, a holiday bucket full of condoms was delivered to our Portland home, nestled around the Christmas stockings. Rumor has it a similar assortment is free at Planned Parenthood in Colorado.

Gotta admit I miss that sweet 10-year-old boy, who used to give free hugs. In the past five years, he has morphed into a boundary-testing teenager who gives us gray hairs and mostly drains our energy. No joke, my husband turned all salt and no pepper by age 50, and holiday decorating has been decidedly less magical ever since. 

“Guess the Easter Bunny and Santa are both sigma,” I added, borrowing his slang for maximum cringe. 

Our family group's Snapchat immediately blew up. 

“U bought vanilla flavor condoms….?!?!?!?!?!?,” texted my 23-year-old from Thailand.

“Pretty sure the Easter Bunny did,” I replied in text.

After 23 years of parenting, there’s no way I’m skipping straight to grandparenting before my high school sophomore graduates from college. “Didn’t the Easter Bunny bring you condoms?” will be my future alibi. 

I need a hot minute to recalibrate my nervous system after raising four children. Frankly, I figure we’ve earned at least a decade of empty-nest celebration for surviving 30-plus years of marriage, despite the kids. 

“Better hide those in a safe place,” I warned my son. “The Santa stash must’ve gotten tossed in our move.” 

Honestly, that’s the story I’m sticking with, rather than imagining the alternative.