The Communion Bunny

The kids just made their First Communion, and I’m happy to report that not much has changed on that front except the fashion has gotten better. I made mine at St. Francis of Assisi in Gates Mills, Ohio, wearing a gray suit that had me looking like a junior account executive at an advertising firm being investigated for breaking sensible child labor laws. All the other boys looked like they were in the Mafia, which I capitalize out of respect. 

It was a day of firsts, of memories and smiles, of families and photographs, and of unexpected mystery. The morning began with dad waking up hours before everyone else, which is something we dads do because we get more done in that time than during the rest of the day. This is an immutable Power Law of Dads. The more time he gets alone before everyone else wakes up, the more likely he is to read a chapter of the book he’s enjoying, fix that loose towel holder in the downstairs bathroom, make coffee and iron the kids’ clothes. No dad dads harder than he does at 5:15 a.m.

This morning was slightly unusual because as I laid down on the futon to read a book, I noticed something unusual – one of the kids’ Easter eggs on a blanket on the futon. Not a plastic egg. One of the colorful hard-boiled eggs the kids painted a few weeks ago, which had been in a bowl on the dining room table the last time I saw it. (I know, I know: Yes, our Easter eggs are still out a month later. Counterpoint: What is time, really?)

The unexpected egg was unusual, but when you live with kids, the concept of unusual gets watered down. Any parent who has ever found Paw Patrol characters fighting a Transformer to save Princess Peach in the vegetable crisper knows what I mean. I set the egg aside and made a mental note to talk to the kids later about not leaving fragile rotten foodstuffs where one can easily mash them into the furniture.

When the kids woke, my wife Jen made pancakes. Jen makes pancakes in our Mickey Mouse pancake maker for special occasions, which have come to include birthdays, Christmas and state-mandated reading-assessment testing days. The kids love pancakes, and our dog Tanner loves any activity in the kitchen because it means the possibility of food falling onto the floor. Kitchens are dog casinos. Come on, loose sausage. Tanner needs a break from kibble.

I asked the kids about the random futon egg, and my daughter said she took the eggs out of the bowl on the dining room table to use the bowl, and the last place she saw the eggs was on the table. I believed her because as a parent you know when a kid is telling the real truth versus when they’re telling their own version of the truth. Normally, I would have gathered everyone in the living room and conducted a full investigation to ascertain who had access to the eggs, and more importantly, who had motive. But we had to get ready for church.

Jen did our daughter’s hair and put on her dress, and I helped our son with his suit, which were the correct assignments because the goal was not comedy. I went into the bedroom to get my son’s jacket (the kids still share a room because … twins) and that’s when I saw it – sitting on top of our daughter’s bed blanket – a SECOND Easter egg.

I announced that a second egg had been discovered.

The general reaction in the house was everyone running in circles and yelling: Whhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaa?????

Both my kids said they didn’t put it there.

My mind raced. Was someone messing with me? Is there a ghost? Was it the bird?

Jen said it may have been the St. Patrick’s Day leprechaun coming back to make more mischief. 

I offered what I thought at the time was a plausible theory: Maybe the Easter bunny came back again. (What is time, really?)

My daughter asked Jen for her phone to seek answers from the ultimate authority on all matters unknown and – I swear this happened – said “Siri, is there such a thing as the Communion Bunny?”

Given the circumstances, this was a reasonable question and our best lead.

Siri responded, and I quote, “...”

(In fairness to Siri, I also often respond to my kids in ellipsis.)

The day before, there had been three eggs on the dining room table. We had found two. Even though we had to get two kids ready for mass and photos afterwards in less than an hour, I stopped everything I was doing to investigate because another immutable Power Law of Dads is that we know we would have made excellent police detectives. 

I went back to the futon, and that’s where I discovered a multi-colored-Easter-egg-looking stain in the exact spot where Tanner naps, barks at delivery men and thinks of fallen sausage. I shared a theory with the family: Tanner ate the third one. Jen was, naturally, worried he might fall ill, so I checked on Tanner. I observed him doing standard dog things such as showing not a single shred of regret, and walking around, and not being dead. I diagnosed that he was fine. Hey, we had to get to mass.

The mass was beautiful. All the kids looked adorable in ways no one will regret 40 years from now. The presence of the bishop added an air of distinction to the proceedings. (“Hey, the bishop’s here,” I said as I nudged my wife, who looked at me the way wives look at husbands who don’t read their emails.) We were sitting in the back, so we didn’t actually see the kids make communion, but I know they did because after the mass my daughter complained about the “horrible” taste of the communion wafer. (Some church somewhere is going to get smart and make ciabatta wafers, and they’re going to get Christmas attendance EVERY SUNDAY.)

My wife had wisely arranged for a photographer to take photos of the kids and our family outside the church. I say wisely because our kids have never smiled and posed like standard issue human children any time that either of us has tried to take their photo. But for a stranger? They pose. They ham it up. They offer reasonable notes.

We continued this day of celebration with lunch at an Italian restaurant. A small group: grandparents, aunts and uncles, great aunts and great uncles and godparents. We joked about how nice it was to see each other in a non-funeral setting because dark humor is a family love language.

The kids thought it would be funny at the restaurant if they took a two-top table in the middle of the room and ate by themselves. It was funny. The day was filled with laughter.

Meanwhile at home, with nothing but all the time in the world and a singular sense of purpose, a dog schemed.

Joe Donatelli is a writer in Cleveland. If you enjoyed this, please subscribe.