The Easter Bunny is on his deathbed.

My 6-year-old son recently revealed to me his deep suspicion that the Easter Bunny is a complete hoax.

“Daddy,” he said as we drove to the supermarket on the day before Easter, “is the Easter Bunny an actual rabbit?”

“What do you mean by ‘actual rabbit’?” I said slowly, buying time to think.

“I mean, how can an actual rabbit go to every house in the world in one night?” he asked.

My mind raced, and then it hit me: The Easter Bunny has no plausible back-story, no flying sleigh, no wings like the tooth fairy. In the crosshairs of an inquiring little mind, the Easter Bunny is pretty much a dead duck.

Turning your children into independent thinkers is one of the joys of parenthood. When it actually happens, though, it’s sort of like Chinese food: sweet and sour.

I stammered something about the Easter Bunny’s many mysterious powers, and the boy wisely backed off the subject. He’s smart enough to realize that you don’t look a gift bunny in the mouth.

The boy is less inclined to pull his punch if it’s only Dad’s ego at stake.

Later that day, we pulled into a Krystal drive-through on Brainerd Road to order drinks. The young woman at the window was named Crystal, according to her name badge. It took all of my willpower not to say something smart-alecky. There was something about her face that told me to keep my thoughts to myself.

I couldn’t, however, resist discussing this name irony with the boy as we drove away sipping our blueberry Freezes.

“Hey, did you notice that woman’s name was Crystal,” I said. “She’s Crystal who works at Krystal.”

“What?” the boy said between sucks on his straw.

He fell silent and thought this through for a minute. “Are you sure they just don’t put the name of the restaurant on their badges?” he said.

“No,” I said. “It was Crystal with a ‘C.’ Not Krystal with a ‘K.’”

“Daddy,” he said, his voice still full of doubt. “Are you sure her name wasn’t just Christian or something?”

“I’m SURE,” I said. “Her name was CRYSTAL!”

And so it begins. The boy, in his mind, has now become smarter than his dad. I don’t expect this will change for, oh, 30 years.

My other son is 17 months old. I had expected him to be an ally for a while yet. But no.

We have a little ritual. At precisely 7:55 a.m. on weekdays, I say, “Are you ready to go to school to see your friends?” In turn, he shouts “Yes!” and runs to fetch his coat.

But last Tuesday things abruptly changed.

“Are you ready to go to school to see your friends?” I said cheerily.

“No,” he announced firmly and then he ran, swinging his arms like a race walker, into the master bedroom. My sweet second son, it seems, is getting a head start on the Terrible Twos.

To cheer him up, I picked up a monkey hand puppet delivered a few days earlier by the Easter Bunny.

“Are you ready to go to school now” I squeaked, using my best monkey-man voice.

The baby smiled, balled up his fist and cold-cocked Mr. Monkey square in the nose.

What is going on here?

The Easter Bunny is dying. Mr. Monkey is down for the count. And I’m not feeling so well myself.