The Elf Box Curse
The Fallibility Of Saints
As already noted in Thanksgiving Memory, Julie1 was, like Mary Poppins, only “practically perfect in every way.” (Emphasis mine, not Ms. Travers’s) After all, someone who was perfectly perfect wouldn’t stash the Thanksgiving Turkey in the oven and then turn on the self-cleaning cycle, effectively preparing the bird for cremation rather than dinner, would one?2
Only five days later, in today’s post, I reveal the other mistake Julie made during our 20 years together.
It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time
I will stipulate that Julie’s intentions were good.
The acute problem was that toddlerhood occasioned no abatement of of Da Boyz’s already longstanding impulsiveness but did feature a gain in their mobility sufficient for them to begin mounting search and destroy missions directed at early liberation of their Christmas presents, which were alluringly displayed beneath the tree. Our efforts to impose discipline on the tykes, while sporadically successful in dealing with other behaviors, were unrequited in this case.
Serving as round the clock sentries, even abetted by the nanny, proved an unsatisfactory strategy in every way. My suggestions for an armed perimeter with razor wire, electrified fences, and land mines were rejected out of hand (for aesthetic reasons, I suppose - or maybe we weren’t zoned for it).
Desperate times call for desperate measures. Julie, despite my warnings of the dangers of negotiating with terrorists, worked out a deal with Da Boyz.
The Elf Box Treaty
Beginning a week before Christmas Day, “the elves” would deliver unto our children small gifts that would be awaiting them when they awoke. The understanding was that the elves would continue these deliveries daily until Christmas Eve, contingent on the presents wrapped under the tree remaining wrapped under the tree.
The gifts would be placed in each child’s “Elf Box,”3 which Julie had a carpenter, who was then doing some work on our home, build.
I don’t know if Julie conjured up this notion de novo or appropriated it from another source, but I’ve always assumed she invented it. I’ve never heard of an Elf Box custom and a quick Google search today reveals nothing about Elf Boxes bearing gifts.
In any case, the Elf Boxes did significantly ameliorate the immediate difficulty, and, grateful for this lull in the parent-child battles, neither Julie or I heard the ticking of the time bomb we had just manufactured.
The Blessing Transforms Into The Curse
The Elf Box concept has a tragic flaw: it lacks an expiration clause.4
When the oldest offspring was four or five, finding acceptable gifts was no more difficult than spending 15 minutes and 10 dollars at the local K-Mart, Wal-Mart, Venture, or similar store to buy kaleidoscopes, play money, yo-yo’s, marbles, picture books, etc. to satisfy the kids. Heck, a typical OfficeMax, Ace Hardware, or even a Jewel grocery would have something (pens, colored pencils, flashlights, small tools, whistles, key rings, …) that would be accounted as treasures — at least transiently — by the little ones. And, when Da Boyz were in bed by 8:30 PM, sneaking the trinkets into the Elf Boxes was a cinch.
Time, as it is wont to do, passes.
Oddly, neither the Prodigal or the Mesomorph has ever spontaneously exclaimed, “I’m too old for Elf Box presents.” At ages 10-12, in fact, their interests in the tradition intensified. Buying a week’s worth of appropriate gifts became a challenge (marbles, for example, turn out to be significantly less impressive to an 18 year old than an 8 year old) as did surreptitiously placing those gifts in the Elf Boxes, especially when it’s not unusual on weekends for me to awaken before my sons have hit the sack.
I discovered this morning that my 20 year-old had, as our family’s first admission that the Christmas season was upon us, found, cleaned, and set out his and his brother’s Elf Boxes.
And so once more I stare into the abyss.
OK, it’s not an unpleasant abyss — as abysses go. It does, in fact evoke a certain, weird joyfulness, something one doesn’t typically find in an abyss.
I do wish Julie were staring at it alongside me, though.
Footnotes
- Julie Showalter was the fiercely intelligent, sexy, and loving woman and prize-winning author, with whom I had a outrageously wonderful 20 year marriage that ended with her death in late 1999 from cancer diagnosed the week of our wedding nearly 20 years earlier. Many posts on this blog are about her, our unlikely romance, and our life together, and still others consist of her writings. Information can be found at Julie Showalter FAQ. ~back~
- I suppose the fastidious could construe Julie’s two disastrous marriages that preceded our life together as presumptive evidence of imperfection; I prefer to think of them as trials and tribulations that she was predestined to suffer in order to evidence her profound compassion by not murdering either of those spouses. Hmmm. Come to think of it, her second husband did sort of disappear once the divorce was final. Well, at least there is no proof she did away with either ex-husband. ~back~
- The objective reader will, of course, find that I am correct in holding that this is not, in any sense, a box. This is, clearly, an “Elf Shelf,” but never mind. ~back~
- Perhaps Julie had a plan for gracefully terminating the scheme. If so, she died without sharing it. ~back~
