The Elf is everywhere, an Orwellian presence, a parental substitution when the little ones become unruly. Frankly, I’m not comfortable with leaving even an ounce of December discipline to this diminutive cherubic chap. Having been raised by a Command Sergeant Major I feel it’s my duty (pun intended) to keep the kids in line, and resist selling-out to an inanimate little surveillance device.
Sure, I change “Henry’s” whereabouts, and that’s cool because I get to be clever with placement, having him repel over the kitchen table, peering turtle-like from recessed lighting, but this whole “…He’s watching you” crap is just that. So I did something about it. I had a sit-down with Henry last night. I told him that he’d been “let go” as Surrogate Disciplinarian, and re-hired as a Benefits Coordinator. Brilliant I thought, this way we can consult Henry on matters related to gift giving. Appropriate and done.
Surely we can’t be alone in the Elf controversy. This new tradition has taken root like a gypsy moth caterpillar to an elm–its position spreads nightly. Anyway, the boy enjoys this red-clad devil, actually having had a conversation with said elf over breakfast.
“Mommy, I’m gonna talk to Henry now.”
“Henry, I been good, right?” A chunk of French Toast flew out just then.
Bad enough Santa maintains control over the naughty list, now kids have to contend with another alarming presence. Does an elf exile exist, maybe something like Napoleon’s Elba Island? I’m willing to go rush delivery if so.
Merry Christmas! There, I said it.