We Need To Talk About Elf On A Damn Shelf

Mom! Mom! Come see! Look what daddy bought at Target!” I heard the excitement in my son’s voice and I must say, I became excited as well. What did my husband buy that could elicit such happiness from my eight-year-old son? I walked towards my son and that’s when I saw it. There it was, just laying there on the coffee table. OMG. No. Just no. Is that… ugh, it is. Right there in my living room, laying on her side with a painted on smile on her face, was Elf on a Damn Shelf. 

I’m embarrassed to admit that once upon a time I wanted to invite this creature into our home for the holidays. However, I quickly realized what a pain in the ass the elf would be. Who has to hide this thing? Me. Who has to come up with creative poses and new places to put the elf every single day? Me. Quite honestly, like most parents, I have enough shit to do without worrying about this damn elf. What if I forget to move her one day? Will my child discover the truth and the magic of Christmas  be ruined forever? One look at my son, though, and I knew this bitch had to stay. “Can I name her Elsa, Mom??” Fine. Elsa it is. 

I know there are plenty of moms and dads  who love themselves some Elf on a Damn Shelf. They are able to come up with clever hiding places and anecdotes for the elf in seconds. I applaud you people. I really do. I wish I could be more like you. I’ve heard you talking in the drop off line at my son’s school. “Abby was so excited to discover the elf in the pantry!” “Trevor loved seeing the elf suspended in the air while holding a banana!” Yeah, that’s great. I still want to take the thing to my driveway and back the car over it. 

My kid has already questioned the existence of Santa. He’s point blank asked me if my husband and I are the ones wrapping the gifts and pretending they’re from Santa. The kid is a cynic, yet he truly believes a plastic fucking elf from Target is moving  around our house when we are not looking! “I wonder where the elf will hide tomorrow, Mom,” he says so sweetly with that glimmer in his eye. Maybe she’ll “accidentally” catch fire while hiding near the stove. Maybe the dog will “accidentally” rip her to shreds. Accidents happen every day. 

My son wants to install a camera near the elf every night so he can catch her in the act of moving. The only thing he’ll be catching is my tired ass waking up in a cold sweat because I forgot to move a plastic doll and I have to hurry before he wakes up and sees me touching the damn thing. The whole purpose of this doll is to scare children into behaving around the holidays, right? Why the hell am I the one who’s afraid? 

Here’s the bottom line: My son won’t be eight years old forever. There will come a day in the very near future when he won’t care about a plastic elf. He will no longer believe in Santa or elves or reindeer and I’ll be drowning in tears in a corner of my house somewhere missing the days when my boy was still little and believed in the magic of Christmas. So until that day comes I will hide this sorry ass plastic elf and do it with a smile. I will ignore her evil sneer and focus on the happiness on my son’s face. Let the countdown to Christmas begin.