My children are intelligent, precocious little imps that would give any well paid British Nanny a run for her money.
They are beautiful, lovable, endearing, and- I am quite certain they’ll be the very death of me. Somewhere my mother struck a pact with Satan himself. For all the misery I put her through- The apple and the acorn falling not far from the tree, planting corn and getting corn, you reap what you sow- has all come back on me times four.
From fits of hysteria over not getting to see Santa at the library (because one was in school and the other at daycare), to not eating unless it’s leftover Halloween candy smuggled each time I walk out of the kitchen, breaking precious Christmas decorations, and artfully contrived behavior such as deliberately pooping on the floor- again. It’s a battle of wills in this house. Strong- minded, busy children pushing their boundaries every day.
So it was a great idea, I thought, to have Elf on the Shelf show up at our house for Christmas three years ago. Anything to help instill good behavior in this house has to be a good thing, right? Well sitting here now I can honestly say- I have no idea WHAT THE HELL I WAS THINKING!
Elfie, our Elf of the Shelf has become my biggest pain in the ass since his arrival from the North Pole November 28th! I’d like to know what idiot invented this little bastard? I have enough on my plate daily without having to invent various scenarios for this plastic creep each night. And with my husband gone 95% of the time and completely exhausted the other 5%, the elf duties fall largely on my plate.
Kelan’s constant touching of Elfie gave me the excuse for the first two weeks of Christmas.
“Momma, why hasn’t Elfie moved again today?”
“Uh, well honey, you kept touching him so I think maybe he’s lost his Christmas magic.”
But since Elfie has found places up high to sit (sometime requiring a step ladder or the use of pixie dust), it’s become increasingly more difficult for me to not only access this freaking nightmare, but also to remember to assist in finding him a new place to watch over the children.
Then I have to compete with mother-of-the-year moms whose children come to school and share their silly elf stories with my children.
“Momma, Billy said his elf pooped chocolate chips on the kitchen table this morning. And Mallory’s elf read a book to all of her stuffed animals. Why doesn’t our Elfie do those things?”
Are you kidding me people? Help me out here! Each morning I’m filled with anxiety as I hurry downstairs to try and move the horror on the shelf someplace else before they see that it hasn’t moved. Racing to get to him, I send myself into a panic attack as I try to remember where the hell I hid him the last time. Then I hear, “Moooooooommmmmmmmmm! Elfie didn’t move againnnnnnnnnn!” Defeated, I grind through my teeth Son of a! All the while visions of me lighting him on fire in the front lawn comfort my bad mom complex as they dance in my head.
This has been the start to almost every morning since this demonic spawn of Christmas torture has shown up from the North Pole. And I have to say I’m all done with Elf on The Shelf! Next year- regardless of the naughty/nice status in this house, I don’t think he’ll be able to make the trip!