I set the elf on fire.
It was an accident, I swear.
I’m sure, by now, you’re aware that there are
OVERACHIEVING moms, some of my girlfriends included, who keep making the rest
of us look bad by posing their elves in clever positions to the delight of
their young offspring. I’m not that
mom. I am the mom who jolts awake after
being in bed for an hour because I realize f*ck, I forgot to move that damn elf.
Neeny has been with us for several years and he is THE most
effective bad behavior deterrent in the history of bad behavior. He magically appears when we return from our
Thanksgiving travels and he doesn’t leave until he returns to the North Pole with Santa on
Christmas Eve. Last year, when the boys’
behavior was bordering on Naughty, Neeny didn’t return one morning, but he
left a note that explained that he had returned to Santa and had reported on
their Naughtiness . . . and perhaps Santa would give them another chance if
their attitudes improved and they listened to their mama.
Can you picture me doing my best Dr. Doofenshmirtz laugh and wringing my hands like an evil cartoon villain?
Sunday night, I actually remembered to move Neeny. I put him in the playroom inside
a lamp, figuring he’d be safe since we rarely use the light in that room.
Lo and behold, Medium decided he wanted to use his easel so
I turned the light on for him, forgetting that Neeny was sitting directly ON the lightbulb. I walked in about an hour
later to turn off the lamp after Medium had cleaned up, and I smelled something
odd. Sniff, sniff. Hmmmm.
Sniff, sniff. It smells almost
like plastic burning.
Insert audible gasp here.
I rushed over to the lamp to grab Neeny without anyone under
10 seeing me do it, but he was fused TO the hot lightbulb.
I turned off the light and peeled him off the bulb, but
alas, he had a giant, charred, steaming black hole where his little plastic
tummy should have been. I almost burned
a hole all the way through his felt, cotton-stuffed body. I blew on him like I was trying to cool down
microwaved mac and cheese. Once he
stopped steaming, I threw him behind a picture frame and prayed the boys
wouldn’t notice he was missing.
Hubby arrived home from work and I announced that I had to
go to Target. “Neeny caught on fire. Explain later,” I called as I headed out the
door. No worries, I thought. I’ll buy a replacement at Target, put him in
the same spot and the boys will be none the wiser.
Target was sold out.
Not time to panic yet, but I will admit that my armpits were feeling a
little persweaty, I could feel my face getting red, and I lost all ability to
take a deep breath. I asked the
salesperson if there were any more in stock “in the back.” You know, the magic “in the back” where they
store all the hot items so they can feel like heroes of The Right Stuff
proportions when they burst through the swinging doors with whatever product
you can’t live without? No luck.
I knew I had seen them in other stores, but I needed one,
like, yesterday. I sent out a mass email
to all the moms in my neighborhood via Google groups. I headed to another store to look, and when I
asked the sales representative if they sold the Elf on the Shelf, he answered
me with a confused look as if I had just asked him if I could borrow a kidney,
and said, and I quote, “a wha?”
Has this guy been living under a rock? Does he not have his own Pinterest account? Is his self-esteem not reliant on his creativity and his ability to Edward-Scissorhands several craft projects at once?
The next store was the same story as I encountered a young sales associate
who obviously has not been inducted into the secret sorority whose mascot is a
creepy plastic doll dressed in non-flame-retardant clothing.
At this point I had visions of myself in my basement at 2 in
the morning, sewing a tiny little coat for Neeny so that I could hide his GIANT
GAPING HOLE. At the 4th store
I started to panic as I mentally documented how my colossal failure as a
parent was going to scar my children for life, robbing them of their innocence,
their belief in magic, their faith in humanity, and essentially ruin their very
childhood.
And then it happened.
A mommy in my ‘hood emailed that the elf freaked her kids out and that I
could have theirs, for free, and that it was sitting on their front step just
waiting for a new home. I double-checked
that it was the older, skinnier, scarier elf and not the newer, chubbier, more
cherubic-looking elf, which simply would not do.
The BoyMommy family is again in ownership of an Elf on the Shelf. Apparently he got his hair did last time he
went to the North Pole as he now has reddish hair. You know what he does NOT have? That charcoal smell.
