Elf on The Shelf: Mini-Man or Myth?
Before I launch into my Christmas tale of deceit and heartbreak, I must first confess that I am incapable of telling an effective lie. It’s not that I “won’t” lie. In fact, I would not hesitate to look you right in the eyes and spin a bold-faced lie in the name of self-preservation. The reality is that I “can’t” lie. I get all twitchy and babbly and nervous. My liar-skillz are pitiful. I am, however, really good at finding a loophole and then capitalizing on it. Here’s an example:
Q: “B, does this dress make my butt big?”
A: “What? No! That’s preposterous!”
Loophole: A dress cannot make a butt big. Fat makes a butt big.
(I did not tell a lie. I exploited a loophole.)
Q: “B, does this dress make my butt big?”
A: “What? No! That’s preposterous!”
Loophole: A dress cannot make a butt big. Fat makes a butt big.
(I did not tell a lie. I exploited a loophole.)
A well-crafted question, however, can paint me into a corner and I’ll have no choice than to spill the truth. But be forewarned, if you don’t want to hear the truth; you better not ask me. Observe:
Q: “B, does my butt look fat in this dress?”
A: “Yes”
Loophole: None could be found fast enough. Panic ensues. Cannot think of a crafty response. Point-blank truth is slammed in questioner’s face. Relationship is irreparable. Why the hell would you ask me a question like that? Don’t pretend you don’t already know the answer!! Now I gotta feel bad cuz you’re a fishing dumbass… who looks fat in that dress!!
Q: “B, does my butt look fat in this dress?”
A: “Yes”
Loophole: None could be found fast enough. Panic ensues. Cannot think of a crafty response. Point-blank truth is slammed in questioner’s face. Relationship is irreparable. Why the hell would you ask me a question like that? Don’t pretend you don’t already know the answer!! Now I gotta feel bad cuz you’re a fishing dumbass… who looks fat in that dress!!
Remember this as I recount the story of how I broke two little girls’ hearts just weeks before Christmas.
‘Twas the weekend after Thanksgiving, when all through house, not a creature was stirring – because we were all laying around in carb comas with pie feeding tubes hooked up to our mouths.
And then HRH (Her Royal Highness – age 8) perks up, “OH my goodness! I haven’t found Noel, yet!”
Noel is our Elf on the Shelf. The night after Thanksgiving, he’s supposed to make his grand appearance. And then each nite, he’s supposed to move, get into mischief, write letters, and all sorts of other ridiculous shit. Of course, like everything else that requires attention to detail, I suck at making sure Noel stays on task; but, for the past several years, I had successfully sold the magic (translation: lied to my impressionable, young daughter).
Note the use of the word “had”…
A few weeks ago, HRH had a sleep-over. I don’t know why I agree to these things. Nothing good EVER comes from them. EVER! The event that ensued is a prime example of why sleep-overs should be banned (and I should be kept away from all children during the holidays).
The morning after the sleep-over, HRH finds Noel and giddily (that’s a word, right?) points him out to her friend. Then she recounts all the crazy spots he’s gotten himself into over the years. Meanwhile, I beam with pride over another successfully delivered lie. Maybe I AM getting better at lying? The girls go upstairs and disappear into the playroom. A few moments later, they solemnly walk downstairs, HRH leading the assault…
“Mom, do YOU move Noel??”
Oh, God. It’s show time! I can do this. I can do this. I can’t do this.
“What? Why would you ask me that?”
‘What?’ is how I always start my lie-prep. It buys me time.
“I don’t know. Just answer the question.”
“Do you want the truth? You know if you ask me a question, I will always tell you the truth. And sometimes you’re not ready for the truth. But you ask for it, anyways.”
This is my shifty way of pinning onus onto an 8 year old. I never claimed to be a qualified parent.
“I want the truth.”
So we lock eyes while I think. This is all happening too fast. I didn’t have anything prepared for this line of questioning. I didn’t think I needed to be prepared, yet. Just seconds ago, she was all in! And then it occurs to me that she WAS, indeed, all in just a minute ago. What changed? Did her (older) friend tip her off? The older friend in-the-know is kind of a (welcomed) rite of passage. Is it possible the friend just made all future holiday seasons exponentially easier and less stressful?
“Yes. I move the elf. I always have. In fact, The Elf on The Shelf was created by an author right here, in our hometown…”
I sang like a bird. I revealed everything. The words flooded out of my mouth like rotavirus-induced vomit. I think I even told them how much the little fucker cost!
As I slowed and the words emptied, I began to notice… not one… but TWO fallen faces! Whoa! No, no, no, no, no… Oh GOD! What’s going on, here?! Was this a set-up? Did I have it all wrong? HRH teared up and the friend was dead-pan – like she was in shock. Should I have her lie down and elevate her feet? What did I just do? Godammit!! WHY do people continue to entrust me with children?! WHY???? Even pill bottles know better and print it right on their labels: ‘Keep away from children’.
Like any good mom, I shifted the blame to the kids, “Why would you ask me that if you knew I was going to tell you the truth???”
Alright. It was time to clean up my mess. I loaded the kids into the car and headed toward Dunkin’ Donuts. Times like these call for vodka or fried sugar. Even I knew it was too early in the morning to serve vodka to the girls, so donuts it was. We talked about how we all felt about this turn of events… sort of like counseling after a terrorist attack. I offered other possibilities (AKA, back-pedaling) such as: maybe he still IS magical and reports back to Santa? I mean, I’m not the Christmas Elf Authority. What do I know? I’m merely mortal.
And then the friend threw the BIG question up to me, “Is there a Santa?”
LOOPHOLE!
“Yes! There is a Santa! Here are your donuts. Eat up. Eat! EAT!”
For the love of God, just eat the fucking donuts! Cram them all in your mouths and stop asking me questions!!
Did you pick up on the loophole? My response was not a lie. There IS a Santa. There are zillions of Santas… in the mall, at breakfast with Santa, in people’s front yards… they’re tangible and real!
I knew I had to make contact with the friend’s mom before her daughter. While it’s true I am a generally shitty friend, I do always try to apologize for being a shitty friend. So I texted the mom. I confessed to blowing the lid off the whole Elf spiel and ruining Christmas for her entire family. I considered buying all their Christmas presents to make up for it, but then I decided a load of crappy gifts would not be consoling, at all (gift-giving is another one of those things at which I suck. You know what? I just suck. Period. I’ve accepted it. You should, too.)
The mom was actually pretty cool about it… or her anger was masked by the texting medium. I was too ashamed and afraid to ask.
But then there was this beautiful Christmas miracle provided by the girl’s father. It was brilliant! It saved Christmas for them… for us… for the entire world!
After I delivered the now-damaged and scarred child back to her parents, the girl told her dad what I revealed to them. And without hesitation, do you know what he told her?
“You know, some elves are just lazier than others.”
OH MY GOD!!! That’s IT! THAT’S the line that saves Christmas! It makes perfect sense! Of course our elf is lazy! Have you been paying attention to what kind of person I am, at all?! Yes! I’M lazy… and so is our elf!
So I latched on like a tick and ran with it, “Babe, your friend’s father mentioned something about this whole elf fiasco that kinda makes sense. What if Noel is lazy and I just need to stop moving him? Do you think if we let him stop getting away with being lazy, he’ll eventually get off his butt and move himself?”
HRH’s eyes lit up. SCORE! TOUCHDOWN! MOM WINS! MOM WINS! WE’RE GOING TO THE SUPERBOWL!!!
“That’s it, Mama! That’s got to be it! Don’t move him and let’s see what happens!”
So days went by and the elf moved nary an inch… until one day, honest-to-God, he was in a different spot. I speak the truth!
El Jefe (the husband) is a God-send!
HRH came downstairs for school and squealed with sheer delight. Noel had moved and he was REAL!
HRH is no fool, but she apparently had not learned her lesson about asking questions and getting answers from me, “Mama! Did YOU move Noel?”
Loooooooophooooooole, baby!
“Nope! I did NOT move Noel!”
I didn’t. El Jefe did. HA! Take that, suckas!!!!
Nowadays, El Jefe is in charge of Noel placement. Sometimes he moves, usually he doesn’t… and he certainly doesn’t get into the creative, funny mischief that he used to get into when I was in charge. But it works because we all understand that our elf is a lazy-ass motherfucker.
God bless us, everyone, and have a happy holiday season!
Xoxo
-B
Xoxo
-B
