When you meet me, the first thing you'll find out is I'll cook you or bake you just about anything. No matter what.
You sad? Here, have some cookies.
You happy? Here, have some brownies.
You hungry? Here, have a burrito.
I'm good like that.
One thing you'll learn about me is that I love Christmas. I love it. LOVE it. I can't emphasize that point enough. I'm giddy for homemade Christmas tree ornaments. I adore decorating the house. Oh, Christmas movies? Forget about it. Those, I'll watch all year.
Christmas is my holiday.
Every year, the day after Thanksgiving (as long as I'm not terribly busy) the decorations come up and Christmas throws up its metaphorical goods all over my house while my tv spews "JOY TO THE WORLD" as Clark Griswold lit up his house dedicated to the Griswold Family Christmas.
It's a tradition.
Every family has their own. We're still a rather new family. We're still working on our traditions.
But one tradition I will NOT understand is the whole Elf On The Shelf thing.
That little cartoon elf? The one on the book? That thing's cute, huh? Adorable, even.
The one in the box? Um..yeah. No. Not happening. Someone PLEASE tell me I'm not the only one.
That thing is going to use its magic to kill me off in the middle of the night.
The info on the official Elf on the Shelf website states:
Cool story, bro.
So this elf, you buy it, name it, read the book. It watches your kids to report back to the Big Guy on if they've been good or not. The concept alone is great. Good job, creators.
But then this part about the elf moving? Traveling? Likes playing games? One thing is screaming out to me.
Seriously, this movie gave me nightmares for a solid week.
Now, I'm not going to lie. I've been tempted to get one for one solid reason:
I LOVE seeing the photos of the "mischief" that my friends are posting on Facebook.
Some of their creativity has me rolling. It's excellent. I can imagine the looks on the kids' faces. It would be epic.
But that doll...that..no. It's not a doll. It's a possessed form of plastic, polyester fluffing, and good intention.
It really bums me out, though, because I try to be that mom. You know which one I'm talking about. The one that volunteers for everything school related. The one that goes on 0 hours of sleep a night to make sure everything is just perfect. The one that bakes cookies and goodies from scratch. I try for that. I AIM for that.
If that elf wasn't so creepy, it'd be in my house.
I never got to really celebrate Christmas with the whole "Santa" thing when I was younger. And as I got older, I was kind of bitter about it. It was like I was robbed of something magical as a kid. I never got to experience the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny, either. Oh, sure. I got money for losing teeth. I got gifts on Christmas. I got an Easter basket full of goodies. I didn't miss any of that. But, man, the spirit of it all? I never had it. I WANT my kids to have that. Even if it means eating a dozen cookies and finishing off a glass of milk on Christmas Eve. I DESPERATELY want them to grow with the stories of magic and wonderment and, once they're parents, to be able to enjoy those moments with their kids.
Screw it. I'm just going to crochet a little toy figurine that was mailed here from Santa. I mean, that's a good compromise, right?
Better than looking into the eyes of that soul-less being thing that's for sale at Target for $30.