The Exhausted Dad: Magic of the season doesn’t apply to monkeys

Christmas is magic for kids, but magic has its limits. For good reason.

Back when I was a kid, there were no elves on shelves. They stayed at the North Pole. I don’t know how I would have felt about it as a kid. As an adult, I find the idea of a tiny magical creature rifling through my kitchen in the middle of the night to be akin to the sinister happenings at the "Pet Sematary."

Nevertheless, our family elf arrived more than a decade ago just when my oldest daughter began to understand the magic of Santa Claus and the North Pole. She named the elf Molly, and, thankfully, Molly never makes too much of a mess around the house. Honestly, she’s the cleanest tenant by a mile.

All my kids love the Elf on the Shelf tradition, and so my wife and I have learned to deal with the discomfort of housing someone with fantastical powers that could be used for evil if placed into the wrong tiny hands.

This was our concern about the seemingly mischievous Sock Monkey that lived at Grandpa’s house.

For several years running, during the holiday season, Grandpa would text me pictures of this little Monkey doll making a mess around his house. We’re talking spilled food, kitchenware, and home décor items out of place and general terrorizing images of mayhem.

When showing them the shared photos of the monkey’s messes, my kids were immediately skeptical.

“Sock monkeys don’t do that.”

“Only elves get to live in people’s houses and pretend to be toys.”

“Grandpa is just trying to scare us!”

I should have paid better attention to that last comment. While my kids seemed confident in Grandpa’s harmless malarkey, there remained a small chance that the monkey practiced in the Dark Arts.

Cut to this Thanksgiving, when we visited the grandparents for a meal and, eventually, more crazy stories about the mischievous primate.

Grandpa asked them what they thought about the monkey coming to live at our house.

“No big deal.” One said. “It’s just a doll.”

“Yeah, you were messing with us,” said another.

“I don’t want that monkey moving stuff around in our house,” the oldest said in a deadly serious tone.

Hmmm. I sensed some trepidation.

My oldest daughter LOVES monkeys. She probably owns more than 20 stuffed animals of various monkeys. Even at age 12, she’d still prefer to watch “Curious George” over most programming better aimed at her age demographic.

The conversation shifted and the Thanksgiving meal went on without any talk of magical creatures. When it was time to leave, the kids ran out into the dark driveway and piled into the back of the van, although the interior lights didn’t turn on until my wife and I opened the front doors.

The kids were all staring forward toward the front of the car when the lights came on. Right there on the dash sat the little sock monkey holding onto a wall sign that read, “Believe.”

My oldest screamed as if she found the bloody corpse of the Man in the Yellow Hat. The other three kids followed her lead and shrieked with the tenacity of coyotes howling at the moon.

Sometimes unmagical is better.

Thankfully, Grandpa admitted to the ruse and, after they calmed down a bit, he encouraged the kids to make their own mischief with the monkey and send him pictures. They loved the idea, and whatever genuine fear that powered those screams seemed to have forever dissipated.

I’m relieved, of course, that the monkey wasn’t actually coming to life in the night to ruin household items and waste food. However, by encouraging my kids to keep up this monkey tradition, the kids want to ask Molly the elf to use her magic to make the monkey live for real.

These kids obviously don’t understand the concept of “Be Careful What You Wish For.”

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Tyler Wilson is a freelance writer, full-time student and parent to four kids, ages 6-12. He is tired. He can be reached at twilson@cdapress.com.