“Mommy, Jingles is gone.”
The fuck. What day is it? I could’ve sworn it was my day off but that can’t be right because Ava is at the edge of my bed, shaking my shoulder, and this little shit knows how badly I need my sleep on my days off. It’s still dark out. This better be good.
“What, Ava?” I groan, rolling away from her grabby little hands.
“Jingles. Is. GONE,” she repeats in that insufferable tone only 6-year-olds can pull off.
Who the fuck is Jingles?
“Who’s Jingles?” I ask my pillow, editing for language.
“Our elf!” Ava stamps her foot. When I don’t turn back to her, she scurries over to the other side of the bed so she can thrust her face in front of mine. “He told me, he said he’d have a special present for me today but now I can’t find him ANYWHERE!”
Okay. Let’s get one thing straight here. I don’t do that Elf On The Shelf bullshit. It’s a waste of time, it basically bribes your stupid kids into behaving for a month, and it’s just a glorified way for Facebook parents to take ridiculous photos and share for god knows what reason. Do you have any idea how many pictures I’ve seen on my timeline where a full-grown adult, someone I smoked weed with in college, has dropped Hershey’s Kisses into a toilet and posed that idiotic elf over the bowl? Too many fucking times.
So you understand my confusion.
“He came through my window last night.” She sticks her lower lip out in a pout that sort of makes me want to slap it off of her.
I wouldn’t do that, of course. I don’t hit my kid. But if you have kids and you act like you’ve never thought about it, you’re a dirty liar.