Thanksgiving is just a hop-skip-and-a-dozen-peeled-potatoes away. Which can mean only one thing – Elf on the Shelf time is upon us.

What is Elf on the Shelf you might ask?

He’s the newest Christmas tradition. As the story goes – which is detailed in the book that arrives with your elf – he arrives on the day after Thanksgiving, and watches over the household to make sure everyone’s behaving themselves and staying on the nice list. Basically, he’s a minion of Santa, and reports back to the big guy.

This is the hook for the parents. Does your kid talk smack or scribble on the walls with a Sharpie? All you have to do is turn to the elf, shrug helplessly, and say you hope Santa is a forgiving sort of a guy, because new DSi’s don’t just find their own way under the tree.

It works even better than informing the munchkins that you have Santa as a contact, and if they don’t stop whatever bad things they are doing, you are are sending him a text RIGHT NOW.

The bad news? Every night, your elf flits off to the North Pole, makes his report, and then returns to your home.

How do you know he’s left and come back?

He moves. Every single night. From Thanksgiving until Christmas.

Even if you’re just about to fall asleep. And have an early morning. Or have overindulged in egg nog. Or if you sprained your ankle trimming the tree after having overindulged in egg nog.

It doesn’t matter. The damn elf still has to move.

This in itself would be just a minor pain in the ass. The elf can move from one book shelf to another, or, perch on a lamp, or sit on top of the television (where he watches you with those creepy, creepy eyes).

No, the problem is with other mothers.

You know the kind. The annoyingly competitive mothers. The ones who aren’t content to have their elves plop down on a shelf, slumping to one side.

Oh, no.

Oh, no no no.

That would be too easy. And that would put them on the same footing as other, lesser mothers, which the Competitive Mother can obviously not allow to happen. Especially after she went to all that trouble with the cloth diapers, and the organic vegetables, and the banning of television and war weapons from her home.

Competitive mothers have to have fun elves! Naughty elves! Elves who cause mischief and mayhem!

These mothers delight in creating tableaus with their elves.

Or

But they don’t stop there. They’re so committed to this elf shit that they’ll happily mess up their own freaking houses at the busiest time of the year, just to prove how superior they are.

These women are the reason I avoid the PTA.

Sam’s music teacher – who I now suspect might be a sadist – sent him home with a recorder and instructions to practice the song “Hot Cross Buns.”

I’m about to lock myself in the bathroom with ear plugs and a martini.

What is it about the morning school drop-off that brings out some people’s inner asshole?

This morning I got stuck behind a woman who crawled through the single lane at two miles per hour. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to drive that slowly? Try it. The car propels itself forward faster than that, even if you take your foot completely off the pedal.

Basically, this chick rode her brakes alllllllll the way into the parking lot, and allllllllll the way around the school, and allllllllll the way back to the designated drop off area, coming to a complete stop every thirty feet or so, probably just to fuck with me, because by that point I was tailgating her and swearing under my breath, while Sam chirped from the back seat, “Should I be hearing those words?”

Finally, we get to the front of the line. I hit the eject button, and Sam and his backpack were dislodged from the car, and he headed into the school.

And then I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, after several minutes, and long after Sam has disappeared from sight, a door on the car in front of me opened. A child emerged sluggishly from the front seat. Leaving his door open, he walked around the car, opened the rear door, and began to rummage around inside. He pulled out a back pack, and then stopped to consult with his mother about something. Then he took out a guitar case, and stopped again so they could continue their conversation. He extracted a lunch box, which was followed by more conversation.

I was now officially running late. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, and willed him to hurry up.

When he had finally gotten out all of his belongings, he closed the rear door, ambled back around the car to shut the other door, before finally circling back to head slowly into school.

And only then did his mother decide that it was the perfect moment to roll down her window and begin a conversation with the teacher supervising drop-off.

I swear to God, I came thisclose to laying on my horn. But the problem with honking at the other mothers in carline – and I’ve learned this through experience – is that everyone immediately thinks you’re the jerk. It’s totally unfair.

I am not a natural leader. I vastly prefer being one of the followers, never in charge of anything. This leaves me free to point out just how the person who is in charge is screwing up their job, while not having to actually do anything about it.

But, every once in awhile, I’m thwarted in this quest to avoid responsibility.

Take, the other evening for example.

My son’s school has a 25-hour volunteer requirement for the families of each student. It’s not too onerous. That is, it’s not, unless you completely forget about it, and suddenly find yourself spending three hours filling water balloons for the end-of-the-year school field day.

(A job – as I learned last year – that completely sucks. Especially when you’re trying to fill them on a chilly night, and every other balloon breaks. And then, once you finally have a couple dozen of them filled, and you ever so carefully place them in a plastic bucket, they all fucking break at once. Total nightmare.)

Wishing to avoid a repeat of last year’s water balloon fiasco, this year, as soon as a call went out looking for volunteers for our school book fair, I sent back a breezy email, offering to help out.

This was somehow misinterpreted as an offer to be in charge of the entire damn thing.

At first, I thought I’d be okay. I had a co-chair, and she seemed quite on top of things. She’d send me emails telling me what she’d done, and I’d reply, complimenting her on how well she was doing. It seemed like a perfect relationship . . . right up until I got an email from my co-chair announcing that she and her family were departing for Europe for the remainder of the school year, and I was suddenly on my own.

Crap.

The thing is . . . the book fair went okay. Mostly. There were a few snafus, but nothing major. On the whole, everyone seemed to have a good time. They bought books, which was the point of the whole thing. And – shockingly enough – the people in charge have already asked me if I’d be willing to chair the event next year.

Still. I’m not convinced that leadership is my forte. I’m just not a fan of any sort of evening activity that doesn’t involve tennis or cocktails. Or, preferably, both. So we shall see.

Maybe I’ll be the first mom ever to throw a cocktail party themed book fair?

SAM: I want a Slushy Magic.

ME: [in an English accent] Daddy, I want a PONY, and I want it NOW!

SAM: No, really. I want a Slushy Magic.

ME: [still in an English accent] Daddy, I want an Oompa Loompa! I want you to get me an Oompa Loompa right away!

SAM: I am not Veruca Salt! I just want a . . .

ME: [singing] I want the world. I want the whoooooooole world.

SAM: STOP SINGING!!!