Probably a fire hazard.
It takes a lot of strength to leave its embrace each morning. The down-filled comforter is pure white and full of fluff, like a king-sized cumulonimbus cloud swaddling me with ethereal arms. Most mornings I must slip away hastily, while the sky is still dark. But on Sundays, I revel in the comfort of my bed, knowing what waits for me on the outside; knowing this moment is a temporary privilege.
I do everything in my power to keep my three boys away from my sleeping altar. It took over 40 years for me to pull the trigger on a white, upholstered headboard, white sheets, and an oh so cozy duvet cover in a brilliant shade of…white. They other day I found Dorito crumbs (flaming hot, no less) and a cheese stick wrapper when I pulled back the comforter. It was like a punch to the cotton-fresh gut.
During brutal midwest winters, I tend to linger in my morning space even longer than usual. The air hitting my face is cold, and through the frosted windows I can see the effect of old man winter. My poor car sits frozen on the driveway like a steel popsicle and I feel badly that we do not have space in our Sanford and Son-esque garage. I dart my foot out of the cocoon in empathy, but the cold spot on the sheets feels delightful.
This past Sunday was extra special and I would have patted myself on the back if I had the desire to move. All was quiet downstairs and I actually remembered to move the Elf on the Shelf the prior evening.
As with many parents, that damn Elf is the bane of my existence every holiday season causing me to run downstairs most mornings like a bat out of hell to switch its position. His smile is creepy and I’ll be damned if I’m going to invest in miniature outfits. Somehow, even with a cell-phone reminding “ding” around 9pm, I still frequently forget to move him. However, he was relocated in a timely manner the night prior because it was fresh on my mind after the drilling I received from my five-year old during tuck-in: “How does the Elf get back into our house every night? Can he go through the walls or do we have holes in our house? Why are his hands stuck together?”
Whenever it comes to questions like these, I plead ignorance. Vague answers impatiently fly out of my mouth. I’m not a fan of lying about make-believe characters that visit while we sleep and on this night in particular, my annoyance was heightened since my presence was needed elsewhere. I had a binge watching date of Stranger Things with my husband and the pause icon had a short temper. There was even a perfectly seasoned bowl of popcorn awaiting my arrival. “I’m not sure honey, the elf just gets here. No one is exactly sure. Now get some sleep.”
He flopped over, unsatisfied, and wrapped himself in his pirate printed blanket.
I felt bad about being impatient with him the night before but figured he was over it by now, most likely basking in the glory of Sunday morning video games. Enjoying the solitude, I tightened the glorious cotton hug around my neck and began drifting back into la la land. As I teetered between a conscious and unconscious state, I felt a light brush over my ear followed by an angelic whisper.
Lids still closed, I raised my brows and utter a labored, “Hmmm?”
He whispered more forcefully, “I have poop on my finger.”
Serenity came to a halt as my eyes shot open and my heartbeat accelerated. I whipped off the comforter in an effort to maintain its pure color and forced his arm skyward like a champion prizefighter. While he lagged behind me all the way to the bathroom sink I was at least grateful that I chose a longer t-shirt from my college day collection so he couldn’t see my ass jingle jangle all the way down the hall.
After disinfection, I drilled, “How? Why?”
He replied, “I’m not exactly sure. It just got there.”
We locked eyes as if in a duel and I flinched first.
Elf, Santa, Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny – he was fed up with my lame explanations and used this fecal situation to prove that, just like me, he could be full of shit.
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