Something fishy is going on.
I tear up when I pull into the driveway after work and see our house lit up for Christmas. I’ve been smelling Diddlydoo’s Dreft-fresh onesies and blubbering into them. I swear Judy Garland is channeling "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" straight into my brain because it’s all I hear.
Yes, I do believe that in spite of the discomfort of the watermelon teetering on top of my vagina, I have become Mrs. Merrily Verklempt. (I’m sure my Deep Thoughts at a Gas Station post was an indication I was heading in that direction.)
Ordinarily, this wouldn’t be cause for concern, but I’m the person who likes to mock everything. It’s why I blog. And darnitall my rosy outlook has derailed one a many post I’ve had simmering, including one about this outfit.
Isn’t it silly? Costume Express sent it to me to review. It's called "Velvet Elf Child."
As it made its way to my house, I cackled at the possibilities. Velvet Elf Child sounds like a horror movie. Like Swamp Thing. And how fun to traumatize Junior. I mean really, why have children if you can’t dress them up and use the photos as collateral when they're obnoxious teenagers?
Except. Chuck and I put Junior in the costume, and it is precious. It's soft and velvety and well, fricken adorable. Even though I'd wondered how much use the costume would actually get, Junior's had the thing on 24-7.
Chuck and I took pictures of our Velvet Elf Child trimming the tree and used the pictures on our Christmas cards. Relatives called in tears, thanking us for the beautiful photos.
We took Velvet Elf Child to a restaurant; people oohed and ahhhed.
We took Velvet Elf Child to another restaurant; people couldn’t stop smiling at him.
We took Velvet Elf Child to visit his grandma at the senior center and holy shit, you’d think we’d brought Baby Jesus himself. (Minor drawback: lots of germy, wrinkly lips wanting to plant one on Junior.)
In the past few weeks, Velvet Elf Child has been all over Connecticut. I never thought we’d get so much mileage from one costume. And it’s the good kind of mileage. Spreading good cheer? I get it.
I really get it.
Crap. Pass me a tissue please?
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.