We meet again.
You’ve been showing up in my tree for the past three years. We don’t talk much because I don’t like you. At first I assumed that you’d help out around the house. Help keep Tristan and Norah in line. And I will admit that the first year you came, things worked out really well. But I hate to say it: the kids are on to you, and unless you make some changes, I’m going to leave you hidden in my sock drawer next year. Here are five things that need to change if you plan on being around next Christmas.
Wipe that creepy smirk off your face: Your porcelain face and shifty sideways glance reminds me of Chucky. Perhaps you two are related. I don’t know, but what I do know is that sometimes, when I’m in the living room alone, and you are looking at me out of the corner of your eyes, I get scared. You claim to go visit Santa each night, but sometimes I worry that you actually visit my knife drawer.
Help out a little: I know you are supposed to be watching the kids, but honestly, could you clean up a little? You just sit there all day judging people and doing jack shit. You’re like living with a hipster. You don’t pay rent. You don’t pitch in. Ridiculous.
Tell your friends to stop showboating on Facebook: Your buddies are making us all look bad. When you meet up with your other elves, tell them to stop making funny little messes and pulling stupid pranks. People see that crap on Facebook and assume the parents did it. Then they tell us all how clever the parents are, and suddenly I have to sit down and think to myself, “Should I be drawing mustaches on family photos and blaming the elf?” I have a hard enough time remembering to move your lazy ass.
Move your damn self: This leads me to what I hate the most about you. Move yourself. Do you realize how many times I have crawled into bed, just about drifted off, and then realized I forgot to move you? It’s really irritating. Get up and move to another room. How hard is that. It’s your story. You are the one scripted to move from room to room, so handle it.
Back me up: Yesterday, when my five-year-old was throwing a fit, and I pointed at you and reminded her that you were watching, what did you do? You just sat there, stupidly, doing nothing. I’m not saying you need to tell her to stop, but you could’ve at least winked or something. I’m expecting you to scare the kids during the month of December so I can keep my sanity. I look forward to Christmas, not because of the presents, but because of the awesome leverage it gives me to keep my kids in line. The whole reason I allowed you into my house was so you could strike fear in the hearts of my children. Recognize that and get your shit together.
Listen, Elf, this really isn’t that much to ask. Basically I’m just asking you to do your job. A few days ago the kids were fighting, so I changed a friend’s name in my phone to “Santa” and had him send a few texts about naughty and nice. Basically what I’m saying here is… you are expendable.
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Clint Edwards was blessed with a charming and spitfire wife, a video game obsessed little boy, a snarky little girl in a Cinderella play dress, and an angry baby girl. When Clint was 9-years-old his father left. With no example of fatherhood, he had to learn how to be a father and husband through trial and error. His work has been featured in Good Morning America, The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Huffington Post, Scary Mommy, The Good Men Project, Fast Company, and elsewhere. He lives in Oregon. Follow him on Facebook and Twitter.