This time of year, there’s a toy elf that surfs through houses, spying on unsuspecting children for Santa. Out of fear of the elf’s all-knowing gaze, my nephew would just fess up to his misdoings. I never used it on my children. I deputized myself to join the nice and naughty list brigade.
As a child, I wondered about Santa. We had a fake fireplace in our house. Our dog slept in it. My dad painted it orange, it’s a long story. Back to my concerns, how would Santa get in? Where would the reindeer land? How come I got substantially less gifts than my well-crafted wish list enumerated?
When I was five, shopping bags appeared under my bed. I checked all and they were full of boys’ clothes. Should I contact Santa’s staff about the wrong delivery and get moved up the nice list? I caught my mom putting more bags in my room. I didn’t realize my room had been her gift hiding place for years. I had declared my room a no boys allowed space, that included their undeserving presents. My mom fessed up to being Santa which explained so much.
By eight years old, I was the gift wrapper. At ten, I shopped with her. When I got my driver’s license, I became an official Santa elf, doing all the shopping for the family and beyond. My father’s name was on the credit card I used, and no one questioned me.
I still get my children’s Christmas wish lists. My wishes for them and all are the same every year: health, happiness, and peace.
Mary Jo is a USA Today bestselling author and 2014 WRWDC Marlene Award winner. She writes whatever pops into her head including paranormal, fantasy, romance, and mystery stories. Being an eternal pessimist and multi-tasker helps Mary Jo put her characters in desperate situations. She reads, likes her kids, and is currently working on her next project.
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