Yule be sorry if you mess with the Elf-on-the-Shelf

This is not the first blog appearance of my dear friend and co-worker, George. For almost two decades, he has been a source of emotional support ("Why do you have to move the rug every single day? Pick a spot and commit for Pete's sake"), my accountability partner (In his one-man venture to save the planet by plucking redeemable bottles out of my trash, George will one day fund a trip to the Maldives on my wastefulness), and time-management consultant ("Go home," he growls as I search for the perfect clip art after 5 o'clock). He has overseen my holiday gift selections, donated to my ridiculous classroom causes, and will occasionally...begrudgingly...admit that I do not have THE messiest classroom in the school ("At least for today," he'll mutter).

But this time...George really went above and beyond.

Knowing me as well as you do...you will not be surprised that I am not the biggest fan of the "Elf on the Shelf" craze. My gracious! When is enough enough? Remember when little Laura Ingalls was grateful to have just received a flippin' orange for Christmas?!? Oh my goodness! Now, every single day in December HAS to be filled with magical delight...no wonder our little honeys are never satisfied with simple joys. "Mrs. Mosiman? Why can't we have a classroom Elf-on-the-Shelf?" one cherub dared to ask before disintegrating into a pile of coal dust from my burning glare.

December in an elementary classroom clearly qualifies as one of Dante's nine levels of hell. As I stomped around my room after school, kicking candy cane crumbs out of my way, flicking paper snowflakes away from my face, and cursing desks crammed with Christmas clutter, I suddenly stopped...a diabolical plan emerging from the anticipatory euphoria. "They want an Elf-on-a-Shelf," I sneered gleefully, "I'll give them an Elf-on-the-Shelf!"

Selling George on my plan wasn't difficult once he realized that he would be a party to ruining someone's morning. "Let me get this straight," he said, "You want me to place this laminated card that you somehow think resembles me on the neatest desk in the room and then tip over the messiest one?" I nodded. George graced me with a rare grin. "I'm in," he declared. We immediately put our plan into action.

To our dismay, the children were delighted.

The neat, organized child who was graced with the magic card received a "No Homework" coupon and a small prize. The messy desk housing a nesting family of chipmunks was heartlessly tipped over. The owner of this disastrous desk had to clean it immediately and then perform an act of repentance before recess (List the alphabet backwards...list the multiples of 6 up to 200...hidden item puzzles, ect). Mr. George was immediately re-named "George-of-the-Forge" (One of my honeys has a dad who is a blacksmith so that made sense plus it fits in well with my upcoming Colonial American occupations lesson) and the kids couldn't wait to get into the classroom every morning to see who had been "desk-graced." There was laughter and giggling as students helped clean the targeted desk together. The penalty-ed pupil always received secret assistance to circumvent their roadblock to recess. 

Naturally, George and I were devastated. 

Amy and George stood there, puzzled; thinking "How could it be?

Their Elf-on-the-Shelf was a joke, can't they see?

But they still had some fun...Christmas wasn't undone.

How was this a game that we lost...and they won?"

"So, did their hearts grow in size?" you ask of these villains.

Who snarled, "This makes me so sick that I need penicillin."