The Elf on the Shelf can fly and tales of pre-Christmas joviality
THE Elf on the Shelf is a wily character; turning up here and there, upside down, in the vicinity of Barbie dolls, making snow angels. There is no end to the pointy eared one’s antics. Every year – in keeping with the latest festive tradition – the elf, a tall, thin, cheeky faced character – suddenly appears and becomes the latest addition to the family.
He seemed to be loving his stay at casa Looby, so much so he started borrowing stuff. To be more specific, toys.
One night he – no doubt rehearsing for the big elf talent show in the North Pole – stole a small Minnions tambourine and was caught red elf handed the following morning, while sitting cross legged, bold as brass, on the curtain rail in the living room.
The Little Fella thought the liberties-taking elf cute and looked up at him with wide eyed amazement, as is his usual December morning look.
Satisfied with the elf’s latest efforts, I returned to the kitchen, kicking a ball along the corridor in paternal contentment along the way. A smacking sound stopped me in my tracks and I returned to find the Little Fella, brush in hand, with a surly, angry look on his previously angelic face.
‘I don’t like The Elf on the Shelf,’ he declared. ‘Why?’ I asked, completely befuddled. ‘He stole my toy. I don’t want to ever see The Elf on the Shelf again! Hurrmph!’
The next thing I knew The Little Fella picked up the stripey legged, red coat and hatted criminal (something utterly forbidden by North Pole law) and legged it towards the front door.
It was a bitterly cold night and I ran out after him. He didn’t stay out long. ‘Where’s Elfy?’ I enquired, perplexed. ‘He’s gone. I threw him out the door,’ was the candid reply.
Dear reader, you cannot imagine, cannot near fathom my shock upon hearing that Elfy, our beloved impish friend, was ejected from the warmth of our home a few weeks out from Christmas. Feelings of parental failure washed over me as I slumped on the couch to come up with a plan.
‘Can I be seen touching (picking up) the elf? Where is the little dude?’ Such thoughts addled me; gnawing away at my peace of mind. Had I failed in my duty to alert The Little Fella that Elfy (like all his kind) is a spy who reports back to Santa.
‘You’re getting no presents for Christmas,’ the Whirlwind Princess chipped in, rather unhelpfully.
The waterworks began.
I ran out and fetched him from his frozen gardeny dilemma and put him resting on the mantlepiece, a favoured perch of his.
‘I know, we’ll call him Splinty. He is injured so he will remain in this exact spot, close to us at all times over the coming weeks.’
As I said the words, I adopted a stern sincere look, my eyes going all wide and far seeing, as I tried to win my increasingly savvy charges over to my plan.In my parent mind, I had achieved genius status.
‘Ok Daddy, what’s for dinner came the response,’ which I was cool with.
The episode was one of many highlights in a great week on the home front. The house has never looked better (under my watch), snow arrived, which made The Little Fella’s Christmas. I cannot recall a time when he was so excited; exclaiming on the journey down from Wicklow on Sunday every time he spotted a field blanketed in snow, or a few sheep wandering around, white on white in a field. Having snow in his own garden was all too much and two snowmen were made, to keep everyone happy.
They even got to spend a night visiting with their cousins and got to see Santa, for the second time in a week.
There was even a birthday party to cap things off on Sunday.