Me too.

His dad was already sound asleep on the couch, still on Irish time, so I didn't give him a hard time when he came down the stairs.

"I need to talk to you Mama."

"Okay sweetie."

"In my room."

So together we climbed the steps back up to his room. He crawled into his bed and I sat down on the edge.

"What is it, honey?"

"Some people say that the Easter Bunny isn't real.  Is it? Is it real Mama?"

He and I had a similar conversations about Santa for the last couple of years so I said what I always say, "Well, what do you think honey?"

"I'd like to think that there is an Easter Bunny," was his quiet reply.

"Well, okay then.  There you go."

And then big tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes and he said, "I miss being 4 or 5 sometimes."

I nodded in agreement and ruffled his hair.

He grabbed his teddy bear and rolled over and I realized that at that exact moment he had stopped believing in the Easter Bunny.

As I headed back down the stairs, I fought off the tears myself.

I miss 4 or 5 sometimes, too.