Shelf Elves Trump Jesus Any Day

Traditions are there for a reason: to provide us with guilt when we don’t do them correctly. 

I’d finish that thought but my issue with procrastination is getting out of control lately. 

Since my children are older than most of my friends’ children there are these ‘new’ traditions with Christmas with which I am entirely unfamiliar. I learned this once again recently when hearing about a newish Christmas tradition that people do. The Elf on the Shelf. As my friend Krista explained to me, the elf makes an appearance on December 1st and watches over the children to ensure they are good. She explained this to me when I noticed her saying something about the Elf on the Shelf on her Facebook page. I asked her what that was because it was the second time I’d heard someone mention that. She posted a picture just for me to help explain this concept.

In her words:

Photo of Buddy Elf – just for you Kelly : ) He shows up at our house on Dec 1 and keeps an eye on the kids for Santa. He reports back to Santa every night then comes back to our house and hides somewhere where he can see the kids. On Christmas Eve he stays at the North Pole with Santa until next December.

Now, this is a tradition I can get behind. I understand that the idea here is to allow children to believe that Santa is watching them through his minions so that they are well behaved. Great idea! It’s so simple that I love it! I’m sure, knowing my friend Krista, that she randomly hides him in places where she knows the little eyes of her children will spy their elf, named “Buddy” of course, so that they will be good everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Her three children are all under 10 years of age, so this is probably the best kind of parenting ever. 

Now, let me take you back a few years when I was a kid. If you haven’t properly been vaccinated against that other form of parenting, Catholic Guilt, you may want to back up and wear a face mask. Because this crap will get all. over. you.

We were the kind of family who had the giant, white Bible with gold-inlay on the cover that you weren’t supposed to touch. You can gaze upon the cover, but you weren’t supposed to get your grubby fingers on it so just leave it alone, you miserable rotten kids. 

My parents didn’t really talk like that. I have to make that clear because I’m sure my mom will read this and freak out that I’m portraying her badly. In fact, let’s just add a disclaimer right here and now that says I may or may not take liberties in the telling of this story. Since I’m going to do that I may as well make myself the gifted kid in the family who skipped the fourth grade and also won the baton twirling contest that helped me get a scholarship to that summer camp in the Hamptons. 

Ok. Now I can move on with the story.

One of the prized possessions in my family is a hand-carved wooden Nativity set. It came with the standard Mary and Joseph, Wise Men, a few oxen, some sheep, and a gremlin. Which, of course, multiplied when we added water which is NOT recommended no matter what that Sea Monkey kit tells you to do. Mom would set up the Nativity scene at the beginning of the month and there would always be one person missing until Christmas day: Jesus. A little arms-out-wide wooden Jesus no bigger than a Weeble. 

There was a reason Jesus couldn’t be out, according to my parents and it didn’t have to do with the fact that he hadn’t been born yet. It was because he didn’t have a bed.

That’s right. The baby wooden Jesus wasn’t outfitted with sleeping arrangements. That was left to us children. My sisters and I all had to provide the bed for him with straw. Because of the manger, don’t you know? There was a bowl of straw next to the entire birthing party that was there for us to begin building a place for Jesus to lay his head. There was a trick to being “allowed” to put a piece of straw out for the bed: we had to do something good.

If you don’t see how that Catholic Guilt has just oozed right on over to your lap there, then you’re just not paying attention.

If Jesus didn’t have a place to sleep, THEN IT WAS ALL OUR FAULT. Clearly, we weren’t behaving well enough. We probably had caused that one cat to end up with a case of the shingles and then die a lonely death out back in the treehouse, didn’t we? It was our fault that Sister Mary Margaret Theresa Catherine of the Blessed Cul-de-Sac didn’t stop needing blood transfusions, huh? See, this is the crazy screwed up thoughts of my youth. Aren’t you curious as to how I haven’t had an extended stay at an AIRQUOTE institution AIRQUOTE chock full of little blue and red pills while getting sucked into the Matrix? ME, TOO. 

If I had an elf on the shelf that “caught” me being good then I wouldn’t have such a hard time with pillows as an adult. I believe you can’t rest your head on one until you’ve done something nice. Like picked straw out of your neighbor’s hair.