Trixie, our Elf-on-the-Shelf with a past (exotic dancer? prostitute? we don't know, she he isn't talking), headed back to the North Pole last night. I'm not going to lie, it was a little sad. Over the last month Jack has become quite attached to the little guy (for the purposes of this post and my husband's psyche we'll refer to Trixie as a boy elf, but to me he seems a bit, um, feminine, but anyway...)
Every morning Jack's come to ask, oh so inquisitively, "Where's Trixie?" and the search begins! We scurry around the house trying to find him (not so tough given that we've identified that there are a precious few good hiding spaces in our home). On the not-so-rare occasion where Jack isn't exactly being an angel, we give a quick glance to Trixie and, at least some of the time, his halo, albeit often tarnished and dinged, reappears. But alas, it is time for Trixie to head back toher, eh, his home with Santa in the Elf Village at the North Pole. We read the book about Trixie last night, we blew him a kiss and said good-bye, and there was a tear, or maybe two, that fell from our appreciative eyes. Until next year, Trixie.
Every morning Jack's come to ask, oh so inquisitively, "Where's Trixie?" and the search begins! We scurry around the house trying to find him (not so tough given that we've identified that there are a precious few good hiding spaces in our home). On the not-so-rare occasion where Jack isn't exactly being an angel, we give a quick glance to Trixie and, at least some of the time, his halo, albeit often tarnished and dinged, reappears. But alas, it is time for Trixie to head back to
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