big ben

Though sidelined by the Cold That Wouldn't Die and the insurance/hospital wrangle, with no further ado, I give you ... Basil (that's the British bah'sil because, yes, I'm a geek like that)!

"What? What's that?" you say. "A photo of your kitchen?" No, no, not that kind of Basil. Not in the spice jars. Look up. There, there on the microwave. A little closer. Yes. There you go.

Okay, stop your judging. He is an elf; eyeliner is perfectly acceptable in the under 12" set. His spiffy little posture? All elf, too, okay? This wee elfin wonder, in his small package, has magic dancing under his hat. I saw him in a store, read the premise, and that little glint (the crazy one, not the jolly one) returned to my eye as I pondered this elf's place in our - okay, my - holiday cheer. Oh, and cheer has it been!

So you get the elf and a book, name the elf, and read the story. The story goes that this tiny little messenger has come to live with us until Christmas. He flies back to the North Pole each night to report the children's behavior to jolly St. Nick, and he returns each morning before we wake where he lands in a new location. Not impressed, are you?

Naughty or nice suddenly becomes a bit more concrete when you see that glamorous mug staring back at you. One word of ill-will and the mention of Basil's beautiful name, and the Man becomes stock-still and reverent, the perfect boy. Basil arrived the day after Thanksgiving, and his presence has been much enjoyed by all (mainly me). Each morning the kids wake to see who can find Bottle (the Beans' version). Upon seeing him, we (I) know a day of well-behaved children is ahead.

There are but five days until Christmas.

Would it be terribly wrong to allow Basil to move in with us forever? Because the fear of his leaving is more than I bear to dwell upon right now.