Lipsie the Elf

Here's a question: have you ever heard of the Elf on the Shelf? Yeah, me neither... at least not before about five weeks ago.

In late November I was chatting with some friends on Facebook about Christmas traditions and one women mentioned this elf thing and being curious I googled it and low and behold this thing is everywhere. I had never heard of it before and now I see, hear, and spot these little elves all over the place. It's very, very Shrodinger - maybe we should have named the elf Shr odinger. Or cat. Cat would have been a nice name too.

I'm nursing the end of a terrible cold and it's getting late so I'll cut to the chase. The kids get to name the elf, and I love, love, love the name that Turbo came up with for this little lady: Lipsie. When I told Turbo that it was our job to name our elf, he didn't hesitate. It was like, it was her name, not that he gave the name to her. I'm famous amongst my friends for naming things, so it fills my heart with pride that the apple didn't fall far from this tree. :)

It is the job of the parents to move Lipsie into a new location each evening, or at least before the kids get up (more on that later) - under the guise that the elf flies back to Santa each night to report on the good and bad choices made by our children. If she can fly, it would, of course, make complete sense that she would settle her little elf butt in a new place each night. Let me just note here that moving the elf has not been an easy task to track.

It's December and we're busy and there have been mornings when I mutter obscenities under my breath and stumble downstairs just ahead of my kids to move the elf. Thank goodness no tiny Lego pieces have been in my path or the obscenities would have been loud enough for all to hear, including my kids, and including Lipsie, who undoubtedly would have made a special day-time flight up to the North Pole to tattle on this new member of the Naughty List. But, so far so good, and I have my husband to thank for that.

In fact, my husband is way, waaaay into this. I have come downstairs some mornings and can't find the darn elf and wonder if she fell to the floor in the middle of the night and as my blurry morning brain takes in the room, my eagle-eyed son shrieks, "There's Lipsie! I see her!" as he points to some new location that I clearly couldn't reach, being five-foot-two-ish... or maybe she can fly!

So to give you an idea of the creative locales, here is a comparison. I hope to post more photos of all the locations, but here, at least, is a starter set:

Lipsie, day one: mom places her atop stereo. Rather dull, really.

Lipsie, day 20: dad has her riding Bullseye (only because she wouldn't fit on a giant dinosaur, but I bet he gets the dinosaur to work tomorrow night)

I told Turbo the other night that Lipsie will go to live with Santa at the North Pole again on Christmas Eve and that we won't see her again for awhile. He was visibly upset. Good thing Santa is bringing him a Spider-Man action figure. That'll push the memories of a little girl elf to the very bottom of his 'things to worry about' shelf.

Merry (almost) Christmas!

Mourning

The phrase 'not in my backyard' has been ringing through my head since noon when I learned that there had been another school shooting today. But this isn't another anything - these were little babies, six years old many of them, and things like this are not supposed to happen, not in real life. No. No!

I pray for you, families of Newtown, CT

My eyes nearly swollen shut, my heart heavy, my legs leaden as I walked to my car to get home to my own family. I was finally brave enough at 10 PM tonight to watch some news footage and the first thing I heard was "this kind of thing doesn't happen here."

Where? You mean on earth? Because that is where it shouldn't happen. This is not OK and my thoughts are still very scattered and difficult to summarize except that I know one thing: I will hug my kids too tight tonight and tomorrow and for every day of their lives. I will look them in the eyes and tell them they are loved and that I see them and that they are beautiful.

I love you, Turbo, and all your wickedly delicious four-year-old smarts. You are my first born, the one who made me a mother, and I am fiercely in love with you.

I love you, Smiley, you beautiful creature full of charm and personality and the kind of hugs that I can still feel late in my work day. You meld into me and we are one.