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St. Michael the Archangel Rosary Makers send handiwork to military units

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Their view: EPA putting profits ahead of safety

<p>Here comes Peter Cottontail?</p><p>Child, please.</p><p>If Peter Cottontail comes hopping down the bunny trail, then he&#8217;s lurching toward the Hare Bar and Grill to pound back a few carrot daiquiris; he&#8217;s most definitely not hopping toward Target to charge last-minute Easter basket treats, then doubling back toward the Dollar Store to grab more straw for the stupid baskets.</p><p>He&#8217;s not using MapQuest to locate the Valley&#8217;s best bone-in ham, hunting down the tastiest kielbasa and debating whether the store-made lemon meringue pie can pass as his own if he transfers it to a fancy pie plate.</p><p>No.</p><p>Peter doesn&#8217;t have a damn thing to do on Easter. Except to eat enough Gertrude Hawk chocolate dinosaurs to make him puke and watch copious amounts of television.</p><p>You and I both know, it&#8217;s Mrs. Cottontail who does all the behind-the-scenes crap and gets none of the credit.</p><p>Pathetically, I still insist on making my grown children Easter baskets. I stuffed those suckers with all kinds of gummy and psychedelic ick, plus my own favorite candy (helloooo Cadbury Eggs with crispy shells) so I can steal it while they sleep.</p><p>And this year, because I&#8217;m feeling generous, I also threw in underpants, socks and personal hygiene products. Nothing says He is Risen like a three-pack of dental floss.</p><p>I stopped myself from hiding their baskets, however, and upon awakening there was real disappointment. My 19-year-old son actually said these words: &#8220;But, I look forward to finding my basket on top of the toilet seat every year.&#8221; Eye roll.</p><p>And, as with any holiday, my husband participates not at all. And, as with the preparation of any holiday meal, the only thing I can count on him for is slicing the slab of whatever meat I decide to serve. Sometimes he loads the dishwasher, but that&#8217;s more about him getting the kitchen TV to himself and less about him helping. He does not shop, he does not cook, he does not buy gifts, he does not have holiday anxiety in the least.</p><p>Guess who does?</p><p>So, this year, I just said no.</p><p>I went on strike. In my head, I picketed.</p><p>I jumped the Easter dinner ship. I plunged into the icy waters known as Salvation Canal. I clapped my hands together, said &#8220;enough&#8221; and immediately threw away my grocery list, but retained the coupon for nut roll, just in case.</p><p>My family was speechless. But my brother took it the hardest.</p><p>&#8220;But, but, but &#8230; how will I get my leftovers? What about the kielbasi? Who&#8217;s going to make the pies?&#8221;</p><p>I told him about a little activity I like to call &#8220;grocery shopping&#8221; and helpfully told him his oven can be turned on to cook things and not merely be used to store Tupperware.</p><p>Instead, my wonderful sister-in-law, Jen, hosted everyone for Easter dinner. Bless her heart. She saved my family, apparently, from eternal starvation. It was wonderful. I enjoyed the holiday. I had wine. Lots of wine. I unclenched. I wasn&#8217;t worried about the ham, the green beans or the damn pies.</p><p>I&#8217;m not saying we wives and mothers need to go on strike for every holiday, (or am I?) but occasionally Mrs. Cottontail needs a damn break and maybe a Xanax milkshake. Hippity hoppity, my Aunt Fanny. Hopping down the bunny trail without 18 grocery bags and dark circles under my eyes? That&#8217;s a hippity-yes.</p><style>
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<div class="metaInfo"><bylineMeta><p>Maria Jiunta Heck</p><p>Life Deconstructed</p></bylineMeta></div><div class="metaInfo"><shirttailMeta><p>Maria Jiunta Heck of West Pittston is a mother of three and a business owner who lives to dissect the minutiae of life. Send Maria an email at mariajh40@msn.com.</p></shirttailMeta></div>

Life Deconstructed: Peter gets credit, but Mrs. Cottontail does the work