Feeling slightly guilty following our Easter celebrations. Not I-ate-too-much-chocolate-and-now-regret-it guilt, but what Misery Guts would call my Catholic guilt: the feeling I really ought to have carried out a duty, but didn’t.
I don’t mean Easter bunny duties – BB was left in no doubt the Easter bunny had graced us with his (or her) presence. An Easter egg hunt, complete with shiny arrow signs, glossy bunny footprints and printed paper bags to collect the spoils (when did Easter Egg hunts become so sophisticated?) was planned with military precision, and discovering foil wrapped chocolate among the daffodils (pictured) had to be the highlight of her day.
But after chocolate cornflake nests were eaten, the hours-old ring of chocolate around her mouth had been wiped away and BB was asleep, bunny ears next to her cot, it suddenly occurred to me the real meaning of Easter had not been mentioned. Once.
Of course she is too young to understand the religious side of things, but that’s not the point. The point is BB and I are both Catholic, and I ought at the very least to have bought her an Easter story book, and we could have looked at the pictures by way of introduction. Then it suddenly occurred to me that, if asked, I’m not sure if I could tell her the Easter story 100% accurately, without a book to prompt me.
So, much earlier than anticipated, it’s time to swat up ahead of next year. I hadn’t thought this would be necessary until she brought maths homework back from school, but you live and learn.
And there’s no excuse either – I’ve got 365 days, ish, to pull my socks up and dispell this particular bout of Catholic guilt.