My giant hanging basket of petunias had fallen from the tiny hook on the porch for what must have been the 11th time that day. My next-door neighbor, watching me struggle, struck up a conversation. From inside my house, I heard the familiar shouts and bumps of a home containing two teenage boys (mine) and two 8-year-olds (one mine, one his best friend). By all accounts, it was a normal summer afternoon.
Petunias wrangled, I ventured over to my neighbor’s porch. We both have dogs named some variation of Bird; she has a Birdie, and I, a Ladybird. We never tire of talking about our weird “house Birds” and the conversation that day was no different. Until…
From around the corner pot on the porch, my 8-year-old appeared, clutching something red in his hand with the 15-year-old, 13-year-old, and friend following closely behind. As they got closer, I realized two things:
- Judging by the looks on everyone’s faces, something was very wrong.
- OH DEAR GOD HE WAS HOLDING THE ELF ON THE SHELF.
About 13 years ago, my oldest son got an elf. I don’t know why I bought it, but it probably had something to do with the fact that I was 26 years old with two children under three, working full time, and trying to figure out how to divorce my then-husband. In other words, my brain was tired and dumb. My toddler named the elf “Any People Name,” and I got busy moving him throughout the house just as the book directed me to—no elaborate setups, just an elf in a tree! Now he’s on the ceiling fan! “Golly, this is silly and fun!” I’d exclaim through gritted teeth. At night, I’d watch funny videos where people’s dogs ate their elf and look at my dogs, silently willing them to rescue me from my plight.
I fumed as I realized I was being held hostage by felt with a face.
Sometimes, I’d forget to move the elf and had to come up with some detailed excuse like Elf Flu, whereby Any People Name was very ill and had to lie still for weeks at a time, lest he perish. A few years later, Christmas looming, I thought I had lost poor old Any People Name and bought a replacement, only to find him in a Rubbermaid tote under the tree skirt. My boys vibrated with delight that “Now we have TWO ELVES, MAMA!” And I, beaten down into holiday submission, began the elf-moving gauntlet times two.
If you can’t tell by now, I really don’t like the Elf on the Shelf. My reasons vary from feeling like it’s just one more thing to do at an already impossibly busy time of year, to not condoning surveillance in my house, to the whole elf ecosystem feeling like a bit of a grift. (What do you mean there are elf pets, outfits, and playscapes?) There are entire Facebook groups dedicated to setting up the elf in hours-long, intricate scenes. The most creative thing our elves ever got up to was sealing themselves into mason jars so the kids could tote them around all day. Sometimes I’d look at the elves suspended from the light fixture for the third time in two weeks and feel actual simmering rage toward them.
As the years passed, my older sons stopped believing in the elves. Once I had help thinking of creative places for them to hide out (or at the very least remembering to move them), I started to hate the elves a little less. Like the Grinch, my heart grew a few sizes for those little red hat-wearing weirdos.
But that afternoon last June, a few things happened:
First, there was a spill inside, after which my 13-year-old directed his brother to go get a towel and some cleaning spray from underneath the kitchen sink. This led to the discovery of the elves in the one spot I thought they’d never be found—rolled up in a basket of microfiber rags I used for cleaning. And then…
The baby stopped believing in the elf.
From June to mid-November, I rejoiced. One less thing for me to do! One less thing to remember! The jig is up! And now, as I write this, Any People Name and his nameless companion (how no one named the other guy, I’ll never know) stare at me from the kitchen windowsill where they’ve sat, mostly untouched and unmoving, for the last few weeks. They don’t have Elf Flu. They just don’t have anyone who cares if they move or not anymore.
Yes, Christmas is still coming. But for the first time ever, these little harbingers of darkness (or Christmas cheer, depending on who’s describing them) aren’t an integral part of the holiday season. And yes, you probably guessed where this is headed.
I feel a little sad.
My oldest son can drive a car. He hasn’t believed in Santa or the elves for seven or eight years now. His feet are twice as big as mine. He’s taller than me and never stops eating. He lifts heavy things with his teenage boy muscles, and yet I’m not surprised. He’s the oldest. Of course he’s doing all that and more. He’s supposed to. But…the baby? Absolutely not.
With everyone in my house now fully aware that I am both Santa and the elves’ puppet master, there is a lot less work for me, sure, but it signifies something more—my kids aren’t little anymore. And although you couldn’t pay me 36 bajillion dollars to have a house full of babies again, there is something a little sad in realizing that your baby isn’t a baby—he’s a little boy.
A few nights ago, my youngest asked to move the elves. He sat them proudly on the shelf by my desk, but moved them back to the kitchen the next day because “there aren’t as many Christmas decorations in there.” And now, I see them watching over the Dawn Powerwash and nothing else, and view them as a tangible reminder that babies really don’t keep. That this is the first of many “big kid” milestones my littlest guy will embark on.
This holiday season, take it from me: maybe don’t hate the Elf on the Shelf that much. It might just be the last year you tie his hands to the dining room light and pray he doesn’t fall into breakfast the next morning.
It might be the last year someone in your house truly believes.
(Maybe also don’t roll yours up in a towel under the sink as a “genius” hiding place either.)
by Jenny Albers 
by Brittany Cole 
by Daphne Bach Greer 
