Yes, Virginia, there is an Easter bunny

I have distinct memories of believing in Santa Claus. For real. I stood in line with my sisters and my maternal grandparents at Town &Country Mall and inched toward the bearded guy in the red suit with awe and wonder. I still feel Santa’s strong hands lifting me onto his lap.

Santa wore aftershave.

I would awaken on Christmas morning at, like, 5 a.m., but still forced to quiver with joy that felt like powdered glass stirred in opiate until we were called to the living room. It was magic to walk into that room.

The cookies my mother left out were gone! A few crumbs lingered on the plate. The glass of milk was emptied. The carrots had been chewed down to a nub. Were the reindeer in my living room? Or did Santa take the carrots up to the roof, and then bring the stubs back down and put them on the plate? My mother told me Santa wouldn’t litter.

Our house had been visited in the night! And there was under the tree a Red Flyer wagon for me!

The Tooth Fairy even made sense for a while. I would proudly put my bloody tooth under my pillow, go to sleep and awaken to find a quarter under my pillow. “Mom! Mom!” I would shout, running into the kitchen to show her my prize.

Years later, when my eldest was 8, yours truly forgot to exchange his tooth for the dollar. (The tooth exchange rate had taken a 400 percent jump in the ensuing years.) When confronted by my disappointed boy, I told the world’s lamest lie: “It was too windy last night for her to fly safely.”

But the Easter Bunny was another matter. Never wrapped my head around her. Or him. The Easter Bunny was genderless. Was there one Easter Bunny? Or an army of Easter Bunnies? For some reason I was fine with an elf in a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer visiting every home on planet Earth in 24 hours, but the idea of one bunny hopping to every home in 24 hours was intellectually offensive to me.

I knew it was my mom who hid the brightly colored Easter eggs in the backyard for our annual hunt. Actually, one year I let our boxer dogs out to do their morning business, and they found all the eggs. And ate them, shells and all. I know this because 1) the eggs were gone and 2) my childhood jobs included Chief Pooper Scooper. Let’s just say that my job was, for the next few days, well … more brightly colored and festive.

Nope. Didn’t believe in the Easter Bunny. Until I met her.

The Easter Bunny is Jewish. Who’da thought. You gotta love the irony. Her name is Barbara. And she doesn’t hop. At least not around me.

What Barbara The Jewish Easter Bunny does do is bring ridiculous, sublime joy to children. She’s been doing that for 25 years with her charity — E Bunny.

“We ask folks to donate an Easter basket (or baskets) for a kid who wouldn’t otherwise get one,” Barbara says. “It’s hard to imagine children living in poverty. But all you have to do is head a few blocks down from the Strip to find kids living in temporary housing, shelters and even in cars.

“In Judaism, it’s a mitzvah to care for others in need,” says Rabbi Bunny. Then an impish grin crosses her face and she says, “But you don’t have to be Jewish to participate in the Easter celebration of E Bunny.”

I’m giggling. Religious paradox makes me light-headed.

Barbara and her bunny volunteers pass the baskets out at places such as Child Haven, Family Promise, Safe House, Safe Nest, Casa de Luz, Candlelighters, Straight From the Streets, Children of Sierra Oeste, rescue missions, shelters and hospitals. And on the streets. Literally. She says parents often weep, asking where the baskets come from. She says “from this community who cares about you and your children.”

E Bunny doesn’t accept cash. If your heart is hungry to hop along with Barbara’s joy, just pick out an Easter basket the child in you would love, and drop it off at any E Bunny location — any Opportunity Village campus or the Nevada International Trade Company (6650 Spencer St., No. 110).

Or call Ms. Bunny straight up at 702-498-9808. Or write to the long-eared, furry philanthropist at ebunnylv@gmail.com.

A Jewish Easter Bunny. I’ve seen some strange things in my time, but …

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Las Vegas Psychiatry and the author of “Human Matters: Wise and Witty Counsel on Relationships, Parenting, Grief and Doing the Right Thing” (Stephens Press). His columns appear on Sundays. Contact him at 702-227-4165 or skalas@reviewjournal.com.