Tag Archives: Tooth Fairy

I Blame the Elf!

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elf_in_captivityOK, you little shit…I know you’re hiding around here somewhere. You’re already late. It’s December 3rd and you were supposed to make your long-anticipated arrival two nights ago.  Ad Man, the official finder in this house, is on an island in the Caribbean, so not only am I already in a pissy mood, I’m also flying solo in my search for your skinny, red ass.  I have torn apart closets and dug through every Christmas decoration box.  You’re not hiding in the guest room, the utility room or the laundry room.  I even checked the doll bin in the toy room just in case. Nada!

Tomorrow, Biggie and Smalls will undoubtedly be regaled by their classmates’ tales of elves who appeared, as scheduled, this morning.  I’m sure many of them performed crazy acts of mischief that made the kids laugh and laugh.  But not my daughters because they have an unreliable elf who doesn’t turn up when expected and never does anything more mischievous than hanging upside down from the kitchen light fixture.

We’ve explained to the kids that you don’t pick your elf…your elf picks you.  And, we just happened to get one who is a serious underachiever.  You hide in a new place almost every night (except for when you’re snoring on the couch “watching TV” by 9:00 pm or when you collapse into bed exhausted because you’ve been all over town trying to locate that one toy that’s the only thing your kid wants for Christmas) but, that seems to be the extent of your commitment to providing holiday spirit around here.  You never make snow angels in powdered sugar or paint Ad Man’s toenails while he’s sleeping.  I’ve never once seen you have a rave with the Barbie dolls, “accidently” squeeze out toothpaste everywhere or spell out festive messages in mini marshmallows.  I’m beginning to suspect you never even look at the creative suggestions I send you from Pinterest.

I suppose I could just run out tomorrow and buy a new elf, but I really never wanted you here in the first place.  You were a gift from a dear friend who couldn’t possibly foresee the unrelenting stress you’d cause me from December 1st (or whenever you deign to bless us with your presence) through Christmas Eve.  As if I don’t have enough to worry about during this neverending month as it is!  Heaven forbid I buy another elf and then you decide to pop out from one of the girls’ underwear drawers. How would I explain the sudden appearance of two of you little #@$%ers?

Bad Elf

I have this eerie feeling you’re sitting in a corner somewhere being entertained by my frantic search while eyeballing me with that smug, retro smirk on your face.  You’ve probably snuck behind a long-forgotten stack of size 4 jeans assuming (correctly) that I’ll never need them again but knowing I won’t dare donate them because that would be admitting defeat.  Not cool, man.  Not cool.

I’m tempted to tell Biggie and Smalls that you went out for a cup of hot chocolate and just never came back.  They’ll forget about you soon enough.  Just wait until I pull out that Lego Friends advent calendar…you’ll be yesterday’s news.  So, I’m giving you one more chance to crawl out of whatever peppermint scented hole you’ve hidden yourself in and bring some g*dd@mn joy to these children or, I swear the next time I see you, I’ll set fire to that unflattering red and white felt jumpsuit you insist on wearing year after year!  Consider yourself warned.

And by the way, tell your friend the tooth fairy that I’ve seen the two wiggly front teeth in Small’s mouth so she’d better be prepared with some dollar coins or at least some crisp bills. That bitch is totally unreliable.  I’m not about to cover for her again with a handwritten IOU slipped under a pillow as the sun is rising and a toothless kid is stirring.  She’s got one job to do…how hard can it be?  Seriously!

Worst Mother Ever

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willa_tantrumLike most parents, I often lie awake at night worrying about what will become of my children and feeling guilty for the many things I’ve done wrong in raising them.  Every tantrum or door slam is due to some failing on my part and is just more evidence that my kids will, most likely, grow up to be psychopaths.  If Biggie gets up 10 times a night before finally falling asleep, it’s because I nursed her to sleep during infancy. When Smalls holds her pee for 8 hours refusing to go to the bathroom at school, it’s because I started potty training her too early as a toddler.

At least one of my children, will freely tell you that I am a terrible mother…definitely a contender, if not the finalist, for Worst Mother in the World.  Poor thing. What are the chances of being born to the very worst mother of all?!  Because of all the psychological damage Ad Man and I have surely done to our kids and because they’re my children and come from a long line of anxiety-ridden depressives, I’m sure they will find themselves in psychotherapy at some time or another.  So, in an effort to save them time and money in therapy bills, I’ve compiled the following list outlining my failures as a mother for future reference.

1.  By quitting my job and staying at home full-time during their formative years, I have robbed them of a professional female role model.  Moreover, volunteering at their schools, meeting them as they get off the bus every afternoon and bringing them to all doctor and dentist appointments mean I am clingy and overbearing.

2.  I moved them (well, at least Biggie) from the hip, glittery, idyllic wonderland that is Los Angeles to hot, buggy Atlanta thereby denying them the careers as actors, marine biologists, surfers or winemakers for which they were destined.

3.  Because I am a vegetarian who doesn’t cook meat, I have kept them from all the meaty delicacies the world has to offer.  If they fail to become chefs, butchers, or cattle farmers they’ll have me to blame.

4.  I lied to them about Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny making them believe in magic.  I then abruptly pulled the rug out from under them when they got smart enough to question my outrageous tales.  This will undoubtedly lead to trust issues later in life.

5.  I raised them in a mid-century modern house with weird art and 50s furniture which made them feel different from their friends living in cozy, shabby chic cottages and reproduction Tudor mini-mansions.  Surely, one or more character flaws can be traced back to never having a canopy bed or eyelet curtains.

6.  I refused to let them have televisions and computers in their bedrooms.  I’ve also, thus far, not gotten them cell phones even as they near the ripe old ages of 8 and 6.  Only time will tell, but I suspect my heartlessness will keep them from expressing themselves through naked selfies at least while I’m home or until they leave for college.

7.  I was a wildly liberal feminist campaigning for Democratic candidates, supporting women’s reproductive rights and LGBT rights and defending the separation of church and state in the midst of the Bible Belt.  This could go wrong in two different ways.  I could end up being the clueless hippie mom who is an embarrassment to my daughters when they decide to go all Alex P. Keaton on my ass.  Alternatively, they could agree with my politics and be left with nothing to rebel against…quite possibly a teenager’s worst nightmare.

8.  I failed to sign them up for etiquette classes and never dressed them in smocked dresses and giant hair bows instead allowing them to make their own (often ridiculous) sartorial choices, greatly reducing their chances of success in cheerleading, cotillion and the sorority of their choice.

9.  I stuck them with some pretty crappy genes.  In addition to the depression, mentioned above, I’ve also passed down a pokey metabolism, a propensity to carry weight in their mid-sections and strangely muscular legs that are exact replicas of their Grandpa Jack’s.

10.  But, worst of all, I loved them unconditionally which just set an unattainable bar for future significant others.

I’m sure this list will be expanded to 10 or 20 pages by the time Biggie and Smalls reach adulthood.  So, to my beloved children…for all of the above and for my failings to come, I am sincerely sorry.  Blame mom and get a good shrink.

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