Not the Easter Bunny

I could not help myself.

And frankly, I am devastated that I was not relieved of this obligation by someone with far more rightful place.

Our visit tonight to an otherwise tranquil pavilion shopping center on the East Coast of Maui was marred by a small event. Very small. Eight year old child small, actually.

The little girl was accompanied by two friends, also well under the age of twelve. As our family walked through the shops and enjoyed our meal, we continued to encounter these girls who were apparently roaming around the mall in a fairly typical slack-paced loiter. My initial note of these girls was benign, but as they drew closer to us, my mouth actually opened in alarm which evolved into smoldering anger.

The tiny eight year old, you see, was wearing short jean shorts that revealed her belly and the fuschia sequined word "HOT" splashed across her bottom, topped off by a slinky, skintight black half shirt with the Playboy Bunny emblazoned boldly across the chest. Aside from her extremely provocative clothing, this tiny child was clearly a BABY ~ her innocent brown Hawaiian eyes, long loose island hair, and childlike gait all combined to create a fragile sense about her that made me want to instantly throw a protective arm up to protect her from the openly gawking stares of nearby males, young and old.

Being in the presence of this precious child, her lewd attire, and the responses it was evoking from passersby ignited a fire inside me whose ferocity is not easily extinguished.

When I bumped into the trio again as we were preparing to leave, I could not be dissuaded. With LaLa in tow, I approached them and directed myself to her.

"Excuse me please. How old are you?"

"Eight."

"Are your parents here?"

"No, they're at home."

"Honey, I don't want to alarm you, but I asked how old you are because of what you are wearing. You see that man staring? And him, too? And that guy over there?"

"That guy?" (she pointed directly at one of the men to whom I was referring: a 4o-something, deeply tanned, beach "dude" openly leering at her while leaning on a railing. I stared hard at him until he redirected his focus and then stalked away.)

"Yes. Those men are looking at you and it is not in a good way, sweetie. It is because of what you are wearing. That bunny on your shirt is not OK - it is not appropriate for an eight year old. It means something very adult, and is not good for children to wear. It is not your fault, but please, please, please talk with your parents about that bunny and your "HOT" shorts before wearing them again, OK?"

"OK."


Honestly, it was a prickly, uncomfortable conversaton. I know I scared her, though I did not mean to. Even with gentle delivery and pure intention, some random blonde lady going off about a bunny on your shirt in the mall is bound to leave an unfavorable impression on an eight year old.

Which is, actually, OK too. I hope it did create some kind of lasting impression in the mind, heart, or psyche of that precious child. I hope our encounter and conversation remained with her long enough to share it with her parents, who are my actual intended audience. SOMEONE let her out of her home wearing that outfit, advertising raw SEX at eight years old. SOMEONE was not protecting her from the clearly directed raw stares of those she came into contact with at the busy shopping mall. SOMEONE was allowing the radically inappropriate, brashly overt sexualization of an eight year old. SOMEONE put their child at risk through inattentive nonchalance (I assume this, hoping desperately that no parent in their right mind would deliberately choose to furnish this clothing to their child) or simply not caring about their most precious of all responsibilities: their child.

And it is that someone to whom I fervently hope my message travels. And hits its target. And leaves a meaningful sting. And makes a difference.

This is not just any T-shirt, and I resist the temptation, determinedly clamoring for recognition within my conscience, that perhaps I overreacted. I decided to risk it.

That there are clothing manufacturers who actually produce a shirt with the Playboy bunny emblem on it which is sized for and marketed to an eight year old child is simply staggering. A healthy dollop of my wrath is directed at those sick and warped apparel industry minds who so brilliantly deduce that the 'hot new' trend involves combining elementary school aged children and raucous sex symbolism. Seems like complimentary match to me.

Not.

But we can only blame others for so long, until the arrow of blame points squarely back at ourselves. No matter the specific catalyst, our most vital role as parents is to stand between our babies and that which threatens to inexorably harm them, is it not?

Thus it is with the parents of this child that my anger and frustration most abundantly resides. And from anguished places within me, these unknown, unseen parents of hers are the subject of much heartfelt prayer from my soul tonight. I pray for better judgment on their part and a deeper commitment to noble stewardship of their precious child. I pray for my own judgment and protective instincts, my sense of right and wrong to remain freshly focused on purity and intact despite weathering the storms of secular America. And I pray that I will always be willing to borrow strength from God to boldly be brave in acting in the interests of a child ~ even when that child is not my own.

And I wonder, truly, where are the parents?