Our Elf on the Shelf: A Brief History

It's that time of the year, friends with young children! You know what I'm talking about.

You probably have one. You know.

This bastard:

I see you, with your creepy, shifty eyes.

Now, let me preface this by saying that YES--I love Christmas and December and all the magic and fun that goes with it. Having a child who still believes in Santa is the BEST. The wonder and excitement just pushes me over the edge into unequivocal joy and reduces me to a pile of teary-eyed mush to be able to experience Christmas as a child via my very own offspring.

But THE ELF. The freaking elf YOU GUYS.

Our elf, fondly named Sparkle--just like about one million other elves on their own little shelves--appeared at our house when Peyton was three years old. And by "appeared" I mean I spent $29.99 at Target for this doll and its book in its cutesy little box and I brought it home (and briefly questioned my reasoning skills for spending that much money on THIS THING) and proudly set it up one morning after Thanksgiving. We read the book and baptized our elf into the world by naming her, and Sparkle has been gracing us with her presence every Christmas season since.

Year one was great. I was still married and had back-up in case I forgot to move the elf. Sparkle did crazy things like appear in the most unexpected places and played pranks on our family that required me to both MAKE and CLEAN UP the messes, all in the name of Christmas spirit.

Year two was more of the same, except this time I was living in a house with who was now my soon-to-be-ex-husband and I'm not going to lie--Sparkle saved my Christmas. Making sure my daughter woke up every morning to a new Sparkle-surprise forced a sense of normalcy for me and allowed me to make her Christmas as special as I could even when everything else was falling apart.

Year three found me navigating the waters of the holidays as a single mom for the first time. I fondly remember texting my ex that I needed the elf sent to my house ASAP just before Thanksgiving, which he did stealthily provide, double wrapped in plastic bags like some sort of merry contraband.. And dammit, I did my best with that elf--but I was TIRED. Sparkle lost her originality and mischief. Less messes, and more half-hearted plopping from one flat surface to another. And then I would forget to move her and then realized that bold-faced lying to my child is a skill I am quite adept at. All in the name of Christmas, after all.

And last Christmas morning, I forgot to put Sparkle away. Peyton woke up, as excited as could be, and the dread hit me that Sparkle was sitting right where I had left her the morning before and had NOT, in fact, "flown back" to the North Pole like she was supposed to. So I ran downstairs as fast as I could, beating my child by mere seconds, and stuffed her into the nearest drawer I could get to--which was in the wine rack (typical). There Sparkle sat for an entire year.

Here we are at year four. Sparkle has gotten some of her mojo back (read: mom is getting her mojo back). She does some silly things here and there, but when I see immaculately-staged elf shenanigans on social media I can't help but roll my eyes (you people need hobbies). I set an alarm on my phone at 6:15 every morning labeled "MOVE THE DAMN ELF" because let's face it--nine times out of ten I am collapsing into an exhausted heap next to my daughter at 8 PM for the night and that elf ain't moving until the next day.

I'll admit I, personally, don't find as much joy as I used to in planning some elaborate scene that requires props and messes and any more effort than is absolutely required after a day of ALL THE OTHER THINGS. I am busy making sure my daughter is alive and well-adjusted after a pretty turbulent couple of years.

But if that also means schlepping a creepy doll around the house every morning at 6:15 and tucking it into some ridiculous pose or setting for four weeks--then I'll do the damn thing.

Because Christmas.
And magic.
And how my kid's eyes light up every morning.
And our fond goodbye to Sparkle on Christmas Eve before bed when Peyton begs to hug her "just this once mom, please".

Dear Elf on the Shelf: I really don't like you, but I get you. Thanks for making Christmas special.

PS: If I turn up dead between now and Christmas Eve...someone needs to look into Sparkle.