Always the Baby [FICTION]

My nose wrinkles as the sound of a tongue slapping against moist lips breaks into the twilight haze before wakefulness. Then I stop clinging to hopes of slipping back into my dream as that same slobbery tongue finds my face and begins avidly running up and down my face. I squeal in protest, raising my hands up to protect my face. 

“Jacque, we know you love the baby but let her sleep.” 

If my eyes weren’t already wide open, they would be at the sound of my mother’s voice. “Mama?”

“Yes, baby. Mama’s here. Did Jacque wake you up?” Then she is lifting me into her arms and smothering me with kisses.

But I am too big to be lifted by anyone but a bodybuilder and too old to be called baby. On top of that, it has been years since my mother tried to kiss me and decades since Jacque crossed the Rainbow Bridge. While I am still trying to wrap my mind around what must be the wildest dream ever, my father comes into the room.

“There’s my pink pumpkin and her lovely mother.” 

He leans in to kiss my mom, and I know my eyes are bulging out of my head. They divorced before I turned six. And I have zero memories of seeing them kiss. My therapist assures me that is for the best because those kinds of memories would have only given me hope that my parents would end up together. In this moment, I understand why she said that because my heart flutters a little as they linger with their lips locked together. Then they return to cooing over me.

I realize why when I reach out a hand to put a halt to all the kissing. My hands are tiny and adorable. And my tongue won’t form the right sounds to say stop. The sound that does come out just elicits more cooing and kisses, so I decide to accept my fate. 

I sigh internally as I try to figure out how I ended up back in my tiny baby body. Before I come up with a valid hypothesis or figure out how to take advantage of the situation, my tiny body demands rest so it can grow into the adult body I remember so fondly.

When I wake, my cell phone demands attention. The ringtone I reserve for my mother blares on and on until I finally accept the call.

“Hey, mom,” I say more kindly than normal, still wrapped up in the memory of how she loved me at three.

“Hey, baby, I was wondering if you would want to come over for dinner tonight?” Her tone implies she has more to ask.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“What else is happening at dinner tonight?”

She sighs. “I can’t fool you. Your father and I want to talk to you about something.”

“Dad? You’re talking to dad?” I squeak out as an image of their affectionate kiss dances through my mind.

“Yes, dear, we have been talking for a while.”

“About what?”

“Will you come to dinner?”

I release my own sigh. “I guess. If I have to…”

“That’s my good girl. Love you. See you tonight.”

She doesn’t give me time to back out. I roll my eyes as I set the phone down and get ready for a day that culminates in dinner with both my parents.

~

When I get to my mother’s house, I park in the empty driveway. I peek through the garage windows to see my mother’s car parked next to a muscle car that can only belong to my dad. As I slowly approach the front door, it opens and both parents stare out at me with trepidation on their faces.

“Come on, you guys, what is going on? Is grandma sick or something?”

They exchange glances and my mother speaks for them with a grin, “Something.”

“You’ll have to wait until after dinner. We haven’t got together in a while,” my dad’s words trail off.

I decide not to point out that I don’t remember us ever being together except when they traded custody of me, usually with unspoken animosity making the air around us crackle. I follow them into the house and find that my mother prepared all my favorite things. Conversation over dinner focuses on safe topics like the weather and what I am up to now. I try to broach the subject of this sudden interest in family time a couple of times, but they take turns diverting the conversation to other topics. I swear I see them exchange smoldering looks a couple of times but try to ignore it so I can keep my meal down.

Finally, huge slices of chocolate cake adorn the table. As I raise my first bite to my lips, I give my mother a pointed look. She sets her fork down. Dad reaches for her hand. Then they exchange another maddening look.

“Out with it, so I can eat my cake,” I set my own fork down, cake untasted.

“We’ve decided to get remarried,” my mother’s eyes widen imploringly.

“Pardon?” I scoop a larger bite of cake into my mouth, afraid that an unfull mouth might express too many of my initial responses.

“Your mother has agreed to give me a second chance.” My dad adds, his eyes softening like they had for my mother in the dream.

I hide behind another bite of chocolate cake, allowing its rich flavor to sooth my addled mind.

“Your dad found some pictures from when you were a baby and brought them over for me to see,” my mom continues, “And it reminded us both of what we had…”

“And I promise that this time I won’t mess it up.”

As they stare at me with imploring eyes, that kiss replays in my mind again. I sigh and set down my fork.

“You are adults. You don’t need my permission.” I finally mutter.

“So you’ll give me away?” My mother asks.

That tiny seed of hope I had during my episode the previous evening prompts me to agree.

~~~

Ever had a weird dream that seemed to somehow tie right into an unexpected announcement? It has happened to me a couple of times, but I never got to give anyone away. I do have two brothers though, who might be single. I don’t dare ask, but I could if you want to take them and get them to shape up. I know. I make it so tempting.

Holes In the Holidays [FICTION]

My shovel bites into the frozen, stony soil again. I lift the handle and toss a scoop of dirt over my shoulder onto the immense pile building along the edge of the hole. I pause to wipe sweat from my brow and survey my work. I sigh as I realize that in my excitement to dig deep and fast, I created a crater so deep I will have to climb out and might need a step stool, which is located somewhere outside of the hole. That realization prompts another. Why on earth I am I digging a ginormous hole in the ground anyway? It is Christmas Eve, I should be drinking hot cocoa and binging cheesy holiday movies.

I scratch my head, shuddering when I realize I no longer remember what prompted me to begin making this avenue to China. I lift the shovel up over the edge of the hole and take a deep breath. Luckily, my first attempt to lift myself out of the hole results in my clambering awkwardly back to high ground. The muscles of my upper arms ache from even that much extra effort. I roll over on my back, staring up at the sky as I heave deep breaths into my lungs. As I finally feel fortified enough to move, snowflakes dance down on me from the sky.

Distracted, I linger a bit before pushing myself up into the snow globe world. On my feet again, I look down into the depths of my new backyard hazard. I could easily bury my most annoying neighbor in there and not need to worry about them being unearthed by their own dog. But I know that wasn’t what the hole was for. As I ponder how I ended up here, the delicious smell of cinnamon mingling with sugar and butter wafts over me. I turn to face a plump woman with grey at her temples and dark chocolate eyes. She wears a somber brown dress underneath a flowing apron with “Me, Oh My, Pie” embroidered on it. A wave of steam wafts off the pie pictured beneath the words. She has a sturdy square bag in one hand also seems to be wearing a backpack.

“Done yet, darling?” She smiles sweetly at me. 

“Done with…?” 

“The hole for…” She looks down at my feet. “Oh yes. That should be more than big enough even for that fat man.”

My eyes widen in horror. How did I get roped into covering up a murder? She smiles and pats my arm.

“Here, honey. Have a piece of pie.” She produces a generous slice of pumpkin pie avalanched under an avalanche of whipped cream from her bag.

I know I should be suspicious of strange women bearing pie, but somehow I find myself reaching for the plate and fork. Then bite after glorious bite of perfectly spiced pumpkin confection slides over my grateful tastebuds. As the last forkful disappears, a sweet, familiar jingling turns my eyes skyward. I swallow that last bite just in time because my jaw drops to my sternum.

The shadow of a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer cuts across the moon. A large figure waves from high atop a giant bag of presents as if he knows I am down here. I wave back.

“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 tiny reindeer,” the pie lady counts, “And one big fat toy man, who can’t wait his turn.”

“Huh?” I forget to wave and my arm falls at my side.

As I drop my hand, the pie woman grabs it in her own, which is warm and soft. “Come along, dear, I need your help.”

“Uh-huh.” I reply, sluggish from pie.

I follow in her wake as she seems to borrow speed from cheetahs. If I weren’t so pied up, I probably would have noticed that I must also be running at superhuman speeds. When we finally stop, a two-story house looms above us with lights around every window and dangling from the eaves. 

“Wow. That’s so realistic.” I mumble as my eyes light on Santa and his reindeer upon the roof.

The pie lady snorts. “Should be. We finally caught up to the big man.”

I grunt in confusion and concern as she wraps her arms around me and fumbles with what appears to be a giant can of whipped cream on her back. We shoot up into the air, leaving a trail of creamy deliciousness in our wake. I just manage to land on the edge of the roof where my not so sweet friend pushes me forward toward the sled team of reindeer. They eye me calmly except for Rudolph whose nose seems to glow with alarm as we step closer.

“Don’t worry boys and girls. I brought you some carrot cake.”

I watch in wonder as more concoctions come out of her bag, “Are you related to Mary Poppins?”

She snorts as she offers tiny bites of carrot cake to each reindeer. “She’s got nothing on me. I don’t limit myself to a teaspoon of anything.”

As Rudolph tentatively accepts her offering, footsteps approach from the chimney. “Ho ho ho. Good evening ladies. Shouldn’t you be asleep, awaiting my arrival?”

My tongue ties itself in knots as I turn to face the very real, extremely jolly Santa Claus. The pie lady doesn’t seem as affected as me.

She leans in to whisper in my ear and I find myself repeating her words as tears flow down my cheeks, “Oh, Santa, you have to help me or Christmas will be ruined.”

His blue eyes lose a little of their twinkle as he leans toward me, placing a concerned hand on my shoulder, “What has happened, Bella, and how can I help?”

“Follow me back to my place. You have to see it to believe it.”

“Follow you,” he chuckles softly. “We’ll fly there. Won’t we, team?”

The reindeer toss their heads and stamp their feet in agreement. He lifts me gently into the sleigh and then lifts the pie lady, who smiles innocently at him. The desire to let him know this is all a ruse rises up in me, but one look from her has me lowering my eyes and feigning concern about impending doom to my holidays. I guess the feeling isn’t so false when it seems she wants to end Christmas for the whole world.

As Santa guides the sleigh toward my roof, a stomp on my foot prompts me to say, “Can you land at the side of the house, near that hole, Santa?”

“Of course, ho ho ho,” he looks at me out for the corner of his eye and I swear he sees right through me, but he lands right next to the hole anyway.

“You’ve been very busy, Bella, now tell me how I can help you,” he says as he helps me down from sleigh, but his eyes never leave my companion. 

As soon as he helps her down, she launches herself at him, “You took my holiday, I’ll take yours.”

 

He stands firm, laughing merrily as she bounces off his jelly belly without moving him an inch. “Now. Now. Surely, we can discuss this like civilized adults.”

“How civilized is it that I get to hear your greatness sung before my delicious pies even grace a holiday table? How civilized it is it that you get gratitude and no one even acknowledges me and my contribution to the wonderful aromas of Thanksgiving?”

“None of that is my choice.” He tells her. “And I love your pies. Can’t get in the mood for Christmas without a couple of slices of pie with my turkey leg.”

She eyes him suspiciously, pressing her lips together as she searches for her next argument.

“Ho ho ho,” Santa’s eyes twinkle. “Dear Pie Lady, you must come back with me to the North Pole and meet Mrs. Claus. She would love to bake some pies with you. Pie is as beloved for Christmas as for Thanksgiving—well, for all the good little boys and girls.”

“Really?”

“Of course. We believe in second chances. You don’t have to be on the naughty list every year, unless you really need the coal.”

“Oh, Santa,” her little pie heart melts into a puddle of undercooked lemon pudding as she throws her arms around him and cries for joy.

I look down at my feet, pondering what to do with this year’s lump of coal. 

“Of course, Pie Lady, you will have to do one things for me,” he looks at her sternly.

She cowers a little and timidly asks, “What’s that?”

“Apologize to Bella here for using your delectable pie’s power to rope her into this.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, Bella. I should’t have used your love of pie against you. Can you forgive me?”

“I guess so,” I say.

“Oh good.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out an entire pie.

My mouth waters as the smell of apple and cinnamon pours into the air. “Yum. Thank you.”

“I have something for you, too, Bella.” Santa says.

“Oh?” I hold out my free hand to accept my lump of coal. 

Santa’s deep belly laugh causes me to grin, but he doesn’t place anything in my hand. “I see you have the start of a lovely pool, so my elves will finish that up for you and you should be able to enjoy your gift by Memorial Day. Now I have other gifts to deliver. Care to help?” He offers his elbow to the pie lady.

Soon they are perched on the sleigh and headed up and away.

They call out together as they fly away. “Merry Christmas to All and to All a Good Night…And Pie.”

~~~

I can’t help but observe that this particularly story strayed so far from the original prompt that even the prompter wouldn’t recognize it as such. But oh how I love it…and pie…mesmerizing, mind-bending, tongue-tingling pie.

Surprise Gift [FICTION]

“Too early.” I mumble grumpily, fumbling for my phone to delay waking up just a bit longer.

As I look at the screen, I realize no alarm has sounded. In fact, this early hour should never be interrupted by an alarm. Sighing, I realize that the only noise similar to my alarm resides next to my front door. I stumble there slowly, determined not to hurry for whatever rude dream crasher or solemn bearer of bad news awaits. By the time I reach the door, I wonder if I imagined the doorbell. I open it anyway and peer out into the square of light provided by the open door.

The dim glow reveals my doormat. I grumble and turn back toward my warm bed. A soft scratching noise draws me further out onto the porch. I make out the blocky shape of a medium-sized box next to the stairs. Something within scratches at the sturdy cardboard. I peer up and down the street at the dark houses. Nothing stirs but me—not even a mouse. In fact, the box now falls under the morning spell of silence, too.

A couple tentative steps bring me to the mysterious package. I take in a deep breath, cross my fingers, and prepare to flee. One flap. Two flaps. Gasp.

Nestled in a fluffy fleece blanket striped in white and red, a teeny baby sucks on a pacifier shaped like an evergreen bedecked for the season. As I marvel at the peaceful, sleeping face, I notice that pointy ears poke out from under the pointed green hat. I lift up another flap and find a note scrawled in red crayon.

“Please watch my baby boy until Santa can come to take him home. I had to leave the North Pole for cookie rehab, but I wasn’t quite ready to leave little Pepper Mint behind just yet.”

“Okay, Pepper, let’s get you inside,” I carefully lift the box and carry it inside.

I bring the box into my room and place it next to my bed. The tiny bundle doesn’t stir as I crawl into bed. In fact, he doesn’t make a single peep until I lift the flaps of the box and allow light to filter in over his sweet face the next morning. Instead of wailing, he blinks his eyes at me and opens his mouth. When I fail to fill it with food, he jams as much of his hand inside as he can and begins sucking avidly. All the while, he watches me with large green eyes.

“Oh, crap, what do baby elves eat?” I debate with myself. “Probably milk or formula. Do they make elf formula?”

The baby coos at me like he knows I am working on his breakfast. He’d probably learn to speak and hurry me along if he knew I have no idea what to give him. As I ponder exactly what needs to be done, a gentle hand falls on my shoulder.

“Whatcha got there, hon?” my husband’s deep voice breaks into my thoughts as he peers over my shoulder. “Something you need to tell me?”

“Someone dropped this little guy off on our doorstep last night.”

“Which one of your weird friends dropped off a baby dressed as hobbit for us babysit?”

I turn to glare at him, “Those are his real ears.”

“Really? So which one of your friends has hobbit ears?”

“It’s an elf…” I cry in exasperation.

“Like Legolas?”

“No. From the North Pole.”

The baby punctuates our conversation with a loud noise followed by an aroma wafting over us like a candy cane fell in a pile of dog poo. I cover my nose. Gill looks a little green.

“I believe her, little guy, geez.” He makes a break for the door.

I start to follow, but a plaintive wail lures me back into the stink zone. I try to hold my breath, but my daughters choose that moment to sneak and snuggle. Three little bodies crash into my legs, reaching wildly for any part of me to hug as we all tumble to the ground next to the box. 

“Mom. You farted.” Liza exclaims in horror.

“Yeah. Ick.” Anya backs her up.

Tabitha reserves judgement as she scrambles to her feet. She pauses on her way out of the room. Her head tilts to the side and her eyes light up as she sees the box.

“Maybe it wasn’t mom.” She scampers over to pull back the lid. “But that’s not a puppy.”

Despite the smell, all three girls cluster around Pepper who offers them all soft coos of delight. His coos fade to whimpers of hunger as he gets used to three dark-haired creatures hovering over him as they fire off questions. 

“Where did you get him mom?”

“Did you and dad finally make us a brother?”

“Why do his ears look like that?”

“Yeah. I want pointy ears.”

“Can I hold him?”

My voice finally breaks through the chaos, “Sure. You can hold him. If you want to change him.”

Their little voices stop as they all stare at me in horror. “Ew, mom. That’s your job.”

I look to Gill for support, but he disappeared during the chaos. I sigh.

“Okay, hon, we did still have a diaper bag from when Tabitha was still potty training. And you’ll be glad to know that we still have some supplies in here.”

He offers me the slightly dusty bag and I stare at him intently until he slings it over his own shoulder. “I guess I can help the little guy out.” He leans into the box to claim the tiny bundle of stinky joy.

With a glance at the girls, he carries the little guy into the guest room and closes the door to a chorus of complaints.

“Come on, girls. Daddy is going to help Pepper while we see if we have anything he can eat.”

“Hey, what about me. I’m hungry, too.” Anya whines.

“I know exactly what to make for my girls,” I inform them, “Blueberry pancakes.”

“With whipped cream,” they add in chorus.

“I couldn’t forget the whipped cream.” I laugh as we troop down the stores. 

As if the Christmas Spirit foretold my needs, I find a container of formula  and a clean bottle that my sister forgot on her last visit and the formula is still good. I quickly add some filtered water. The girls mug me for the chance to shake the bottle. By the time Gill comes downstairs with our guest, little elf lungs are helping proclaim his hunger and three little girls are begging to be the one to feed him. 

“Come on, little helpers,” Gill sits down in the middle of the couch and the girls crowd around him as he uses the bottle as a plug to stem the flow of aggravated noises.

Soon the air is filled with the sounds of admiring girls, contented sucking, and me humming as I rustle up pancakes for my crew. My husband seems content in all the chaos, especially when I reward him with chocolate chip pancakes with peanut butter sauce instead of syrup. After fortifying ourselves with breakfast, I call some friends to see if anyone has some baby items we can borrow. Luckily, most of them are bigger hoarders than me, so Pepper will be living in style for the duration of his stay.

Over the next week, we all become attached to Pepper. Gill and the girls treat him like an exotic pet. I catch them trying to teach him tricks every time I turn around. The girls even try to bribe him with chunks of candy cane even after I explain why they shouldn’t. A threat to disappear all of the refreshing peppermint treats finally convinces them to listen.

Christmas Eve brings snow, anticipation of gifts to come, and bittersweet emotions about Pepper returning home. I decide to succeed where generations of children have failed and stay up to confront jolly old Saint Nicholas. Clearly, Pepper’s mother doesn’t have what it takes to care for him. With the right haircut, he could stay under my watchful care a little longer.

As the rest of my family snuggles down in their beds, no doubt dreaming of Christmas Day cinnamon rolls instead of sugarplums, I settle into my recliner with Pepper’s borrowed bassinet close by my side. I open the latest thriller in my ever growing to be read pile and step into the story. Though the heart-pounding action should keep me awake and anxious, the soft, steady breathing of my elf baby comforts and calms me.

When I wake from my unplanned nap, my eyes instantly go to the bassinet. Empty. Yet his sweet peppermint aroma still lingers in the air. A tear rolls down my cheek. When I reach up to wipe it away, paper rustles against my cheek.

“You have been a good human auntie to baby Pepper. Just more proof why you were always on the nice list. I know all your arguments for letting him stay with you. The only one that matters is how much your family loves him, but his North Pole family loves him just as much. I promise to let you know how he is doing and I know his mom will want to bring him to see you when she is herself again. Merry Christmas. Enjoy your bonus gift.”

Under the letter, a neatly wrapped package warms my lap. I open it slowly to unveil a sweater with “Elf Auntie” carefully woven into a pattern of snowflakes and candy canes. I pull it over my head and find that it smells of gingerbread and peppermint. I admire the packages of varying sizes  under the tree as I wait for the rest of my family to join me. Soon they begin tumbling downstairs with wide eyes.

“Pepper.” The girls cry, rushing to the bassinet instead of the tree.

“He went home with Santa.” I bite my lip, worrying about their reaction to this news though I told them from the beginning that when the gifts arrived, Pepper would return to his home.

“Lucky,” Tabitha says.

“Yeah. Why couldn’t we go with him to the North Pole?” Anya adds.

“Maybe Santa will let us come visit Pepper,” Liza eyes the piles of presents as she speaks. “Let’s see what he brought us and then we can ask him about Pepper in our thank you notes.”

Soon wrapping paper flying through the air distracts us from the absence of elven cuteness, but it also reminds us of what a magical place he has moved on to. Besides, maybe Santa will let us come visit him at the North Pole.

~~

Happy Friday! Happy Holidays! Are you prepped? Are you ready? Do you have your own stinky little elves to help you finish up those last minute cookies? I hope so.

Elf Reporting [FICTION]

Life in a box gets boring fast. Even when that box has a nice plastic window so you can gaze out at the world and all he potential friends who peer into your box from time to time. At least the store makes the effort to make every aisle feel like home at this time of year. Across from me, a display shows other adorable elves, just like me, cavorting on snow flocking. Nearby, a yeti, a slightly less adorable elf wielding a drill, and a reindeer with such a terrible cold that his nose glows red sing carols to an angel perched atop a tiny stable. Hidden amongst more flocking, faux evergreen trees promise gifts to come to all the good little girls and boys if they make the trees beautiful and obey their parents. I can’t wait to be part of that process, but first someone has to pick my box and invite me into their home.

Today, I earn my wings, or my shelf. The handsome man with the piercing blue eyes and jet black curls grins at me as picks up my box. I smile back at him, but then again, I smile at everyone. 

“Time to come home, Elf.” He continues grinning at me.

I sigh internally. Apparently, I have been christened the most generic name ever bestowed on my kind. But now I have a home. And what a home. This guy’s house proves both clean and spacious. My shelf offers a great view of the whole room. And he doesn’t seem to have any children. No sticky hands reaching for me. No fights over who gets to play with me next. Of course, this means no marshmallow bubble baths in an over-sized mug and no antics to perform daily, which allows young elves like myself to get energy out for long hours of sitting immobile and observing young humans. After the first day, my new friend doesn’t bother to move me—at all. A nice young woman does dust me and my shelf off once a week and boop my nose, and he has lots of conversations on speakerphone to listen in on.

As night falls, I prepare for my first report to the head office. My subject doesn’t seem to be concerned that he won’t receive the best gifts from Mr. Claus, since he barely acknowledges me. Lucky for him, he models good behavior and does have some lovely holiday decor for me to admire while I wait on my shelf for something to happen.

I have my pick of shiny surfaces to check that my hat hasn’t fallen askew and my standard issue red pajamas still speak of Christmas and warmth and Santa’s arrival. My subject, whose name I still haven’t heard, snores loudly from his bedroom, so the time has arrived. I close my eyes and think of home. Tapping my red-covered heels together and thinking “there’s no place like home” isn’t necessary, but I do it anyway. When the air feels a bit cooler and the scent of peppermint offers its welcome, I open my eyes. I look down the hallway at doors derated in various versions of red, white, and green delight. I walk down the hall until I reach the correct door.

I take a deep breath and step into the office labeled “President of Naughty/Nice Relations”. The interview starts out as maudlin as one would expect with questions about the behavior of my subject. Then it takes on a different feeling.

“You have lucked into a prime location, my friend. ‘The National Enquirer’ wants information that only you can get for them.”

Perplexed, I stare at the president. “What do you mean?”

“How do you think we subsidize the increased cost of materials for those billions of toys?”

His words only heighten my confusion.

“Son, we need you to give us the dirt on your ‘owner’, Dustin Green, the country star.”

“Who now?”

“You don’t know you have been living with a celebrity for the last week? Where have you been, son?”

“In a box, in storage until about a month ago.”

“Don’t be a wise guy. Just get the info.” He waves his hand at me and I feel myself slipping back through time and space.

I land on my shelf with a plop that dislodges me from my normal perch. I scream all the way down to the enveloping softness of the plush couch. I lean my head back, take a deep breath, and promptly pass out.

“There you are, Elf. It’s your big day,” a rich deep voice pulls me back to wakefulness.

Dustin lifts me with gentle hands and places me back on my shelf. I stare back at him with wide eyes, resisting the urge to break one of cardinal rules of elfing by asking him what he means by my big day. Surely, I haven’t slept through my assignment only to awaken on Christmas Day. 

“Just hold these for me,” he winks as he places three candy canes in my lap.

I breath in the rich peppermint smell happily as he turns toward the door. The bell rings and the man dances to answer it. Since he can’t see me, I practice a few groovy steps of my own while juggling the three candy canes. 

Then the door opens and my world suddenly makes sense. Three tiny humans come barreling into the room with shrill cries of “Uncle Dusty.”

My little stuffing heart fills up so much I fear it might explode. Then it fills up again when they finish hugging their uncle and set eyes on me.

“Elf, you’re here.” 

As they fawn over me, I try to eavesdrop on Dusty and the young woman at the door. Of course, I don’t hear anything. Then the children decide a game of toss the elf is in order. I find it annoying at first, but it grows on me. By the time they lose interest, I am so dizzy that I barely remember my role as investigative reporter. Luckily, being able to focus brings important information back to the front of my mind. Especially when something newsworthy drops in my lap.

“Thank you, Dusty, the kids love you so much and I need a break.”

“I know, Darla. And I need some Christmas cheer. Maybe I’ll write a song.”

“Right. You clearly don’t spend enough time with your niece and nephews.”

“What do you mean by that?”

She laughs and pats his cheek. “By, bro. Thanks again.” Then she disappears out the door.

Dusty turns to face my little troop of believers. They have moved on to taking turns passing me around like the world’s most oddly shaped football. He laughs and joins in the fun. When he catches me, he holds me up like the trophy I am.

“I’d like to thank all my songwriters and muses for helping me win the award of best uncle ever.”

“You’re our only uncle.”

“Until your aunt Margie gets married.” They all laugh at this.

“What about it, Uncle Dusty, do you have a new song for us.”

The man’s normally tan face pales at the question, but he lowers me toward the children and waves my arms around as he speaks in a falsetto, “How about you kids help your uncle write a song for Santa?”

“Aren’t there enough of those?” The oldest boy crosses his arms and looks at the floor.

Internally, I gasp. Is he crossing over into the age of unbelief—on my watch? Luckily, Dustin’s deep rich voice belting out some classic Christmas carols brings the boy back from the brink of disaster. Over the next week, Dustin keeps using the power of music to keep the children’s spirits up. I learn that they will be leaving on Christmas Eve to be with their mom, who has been working double shifts. Dustin offered to fund their festivities, but she refused, so he is watching them instead while she earns a little extra money for Christmas. 

The children make me a bed out of a super fuzzy slipper shaped like and elf shoe, and I find it the perfect place to put thoughts to paper as I observe how wonderful Dustin is with the kids. I know everyone in America, particularly single ladies of a certain age, will thrill to hear he has all the earmarks of a loving and supportive father.

Then they spend the twenty-third finishing up his new Christmas hit, which I can tell will bring him back to the top of the charts. He even plans to release it on Christmas Eve before what he is calling his release party (in reality, Christmas Eve dinner with his sister and her kids).

Christmas Eve comes too fast yet not as quickly as I desire. Inspired by all the Christmas spirit flowing from these children, I can’t wait for the lights to go off and the sleepy sounds to fill the air. I quickly write down the specifics of Dustin Green’s inspiration for a holiday hit and dispatch it to our liaison with ‘The National Enquirer’.

The next day, he brings me in for a consult. I stand proudly before his desk. My chest puffs out and my shoulders throw themselves back. I tilt my head down just slightly to meet his eyes. He quickly adjust my posture with a few well-aimed words.

“Loved your story. Just not the way you wrote it. I will fix it up and send it out to boost holiday cheer by the next printing.”

“Pardon me.” For not wanting the job, my feelings seem awfully mangled by his review.

“You are free to go.” He waves his hand, misinterpreting my meaning.

Before I can argue, a glittering ball of magic whisks me back to my cozy shelf. 

“Humph. I think that elf needs to be added to the naughty list for stealing my story.”

Of course, before I can do anything, the phone rings, waking Dustin. He answers it groggily but quickly answers on video to bring the kids in to talk to their favorite elf, who sits motionless on his shelf while he ponders how to make right what his editor has made wrong, but that isn’t a Christmas story…

~~~

Sorry this offering arrives a day late and short of my desires for it. It seems the anti holiday spirits have tried to keep this one from seeing the light of day. Every time I work on this, someone or something interrupts. I ended up with tension headaches twice yesterday for my efforts, so be kind and enjoy.