Have you picked out some panties for your Easter basket yet?

My excitement over Easter might confuse my hardcore religious friends since I no longer attend church or follow the strict dogma by which I was raised. However, the story of Jesus’ resurrection in tandem with spring inspires me to celebrate rejuvenation, rebirth, and reconnection with my loved ones.

And I won’t lie: the commercialization of Easter appeals to me, too. Every year my mother presents Timber and me with a basket filled with seasonal candy and other items we perhaps expressed a need for over the winter, such as facial moisturizers, muffin pans, or toenail polish. The only item that Mother consistently nestles amongst Cadbury Creme Eggs and fake pastel grass is a selection of “five for 25” panties from Victoria’s Secret. Before I discovered boy shorts, I went through a phase of sporting thongs, as I assumed they were my only option for maintaining an invisible panty line. Dressed in my Sunday best, I hung lacey, stringy, and faux rosebud-spotted thongs on my arm and swung it around as a gesture of gratitude, surrounded by my clapping Mother; equally stoked sister; and silent, tolerant father.

This year Mother requested that I select some panties for my Easter basket, but I didn’t have time to scour the Victoria’s Secret site for an assortment of boy shorts. One recent night while I was rushing to get ready to go out with Ryan, Mother called. Stressed, I put the call on speaker:

“Bobbin? Bobbin?! HELLO?” Mother yelled.

“Yes, Mother.”

“I just wanted to check. Have you picked out some panties for your Easter basket yet?”

Ryan paused his iPhone He-Man game to shake his head in disbelief.

“You have an interesting relationship with your family,” he later commented.

On Sunday Mother presented Daddy, Timber, Ryan, and me with generous Easter goody bags. I ogled Timber while she surveyed her bag’s contents until she reached the panties on the bottom layer. She held up one unique pattern, paused, and moved onto the next pattern until done displaying her new underwear. (Ryan received not underwear but wine.)

After the basket fest, I made a special egg dish for Daddy and Ryan, and summoned both of them to join me in the breakfast room. Daddy stopped in the kitchen, hovered over a bowl of deviled egg stuffing, and spooned it onto his plate, confusing the yolk/mustard/vinegar mixture for his breakfast.

“Mmm-MMM!” he exclaimed.

“Robert! NO!” Mother screamed.

Once I figured out the source of commotion, I yelled, “Come in here, Daddy! I already set up your food on the table!”

“That does look like a bowl of scrambled eggs,” Ryan defended Daddy.

I admit that Easter this year didn’t feel rejuvenating at least on the surface. When we walked the dogs at the local recreation center, Daddy’s gait seemed noticeably slower and more like a shuffle; we didn’t talk about much until I hit the jackpot asking him about R&R from the Vietnam War in Australia; and the deviled egg breakfast mix-up was both funny and disturbing.

However, I insist on rising from the sorrow of Alzheimer’s and connecting with my family on a deeper level. Next year and every following year, I aim to give my mother an Easter basket.