Wanted: Elf On Shelf

Being a good parent is hard these days. There are standards of Facebook and Pinterest type living that we all get to feel guilty about instead of just enjoying our kids, like back in the good old days. My mom didn't know what five hundred of her closest friends were doing with their kids for the three weeks leading up to Christmas and she didn't have time to care. She packed lunches, washed clothes and made crafts, all without the gut wrenching "benefit" of photographing every tedious step and posting it online. There are days I have to revert back to the 1980's, leg warmers and all, in order to actually enjoy my life and stop wondering if someone has Liked my pot roast pic. It's a a bit of a time waster and I will admit that there are days that it consumes more of my life than it really should.

Christmas has to be one of the worst times of year to be an insecure, unprepared, impatient parent. Social media has its stocking filled to bursting seams with craft ideas, cookie recipes, photo opportunities and that motherfucking Elf. You know, the ugly one with frighteningly long limbs who scampers around your house looking for trouble, and apparently keeps a close eye on your little shithead children as they flush your earrings down the toilet. Better stop sweetheart, Elf on the Shelf is watching. If that kid knew what was good for him, he would drowned Mr. Elf and bury him in the backyard. The concept is that Mr. Elf is checking in with Santa, all the while making rounds at your house and popping up in the most unusual spots. Courtesy of Mom and Dad. Most days I don't even get myself dressed, eat a full meal or take a crap. Time restraints, you know. That being said, I don't have an extra ten minutes at night to stage some sort of holiday photo op with a stuffed toy and a bag of cookies. My son asked about Elf the other evening, so thank you parents who are allowing your kids to brag at school about your stupid traveling Elf.

"Mom, why don't we have one of those little toys that watches you and moves to a different spot in the house every night?"

I should have said something holiday-ish or at least something sweet, but after prepping my house for twenty people, cleaning out the litter box and making dinner, I had nothing nice to say. Instead, I screamed like a toddler.

"Well, because it's a ridiculous idea and I'm a bad parent." Yep. I admitted to being a bad parent in front of my kid. He wasn't phased at all and continued his inquisition with his father, who in turn promised to rustle up an elf somewhere in the house and place it in secret spots.
"No, Dad, it has to be a real Elf on the Shelf. You have to buy it from the store and use the real one." 

During that exchange, we learned that Mr. Elf is just another way to create consumers at the tender age of seven. Any old elf won't do, we needed the one in the box with instructions and a creepy little face. The thought of my husband hiding an elf every night was almost enough incentive for me to buy one. With all the love I have in my heart for my husband, he wouldn't make it three days with that elf before he ripped it limb from limb and blamed the dog. If we did buy one, for my husband of course, it would end up staying in the box and being used as a White Elephant gift next year when some asshole kid at school ruins Christmas for my son by informing him that there is no Santa and therefore no need for an Elf checking in with him nightly.

After a few glasses of wine, I made my own 'elf on a partial wall' holiday scene with a half naked Barbie wearing a football jersey. I'm snagging that Bad Parent award for sure.

Tis' The Season

If I'm really honest with myself, my Christmas wish is to have a home that resembles a magazine cover or a holiday Pinterest photo. My snarky remarks about Martha and any other broad who has homemade ornaments and coordinated place settings hides a deeper issue....I'm jealous that I don't have a house that looks like Better Homes and Gardens at Christmastime. You would be more likely to see my humble abode featured on Hoarders or some slap stick website poking fun at crooked trees and BBQ's covered in Christmas lights. My husband wasn't born with style either, so I can't depend on his keen eye to spruce up the yard or take any interest in matching bows on the tree. His idea of hanging Christmas lights includes a fifteen minute session on the front porch where he clumsily ties white lights to the handrail and then forces us all to stand in the street for fifteen minutes complimenting his handiwork. It's pretty fucking impressive. Almost as impressive as my attempts at hosting a Christmas party, which I am scheduled to do in two days. My house looks like a tornado swept through and smells like a vet's office on a hot afternoon. "What's that dead fish smell, Mom?" I explain that the dog chewed up a baby bird while they were at school and that he could really use a Tic Tac. I have mismatched plates, broken ornaments and a punch bowl that I found at the thrift store for two bucks, which takes on an even classier feel when I place the plastic ladle inside of it.

I want the secrets of these hostesses who greet you at the door holding a crystal mug filled with homemade eggnog, dressed to the nines in a shimmery shift dress, smells of pine trees wafting from inside. They smile, there is an air of ease as they show you to the kitchen where they have matching Santa bowls filled to brim with homemade every-fucking-thing you could ever want to snack on. There is Christmas music playing in the background, people laughing and her husband floats into the room wearing a suit coat and asks if he can whip me up something to drink. Yes, I'd like to sip on a cup full of your life.

On Saturday, my house will still look like people live in it, people who leave smashed Doritos between the couch cushions and snot rags on the counter. The smell will have improved, but only slightly and only because one of the guests wore too much cologne. We will drink out of plastic cups and they will be filled with shots of liquor that I found an hour before the party started, stuck behind the Play Doh in my kitchen cupboard. If I am wearing anything, it will be yoga pants, a hoodie and my slippers, which still smell like corn chips. My husband will make you a drink, but he will also make an inappropriate joke and I promise he won't be in a suit. We can only hope he's in clean pants, but I'm not making any promises. Forget about the decorations all together, we have a puppy who eats dead birds and dirty underwear, so pine cone wreaths are out of the fucking question. Tis' the season where my inability to host a party really shines through. Jealous yet?