Somebody help me understand.
This is an issue that has befuddled my little brain for the past several Christmases, and now that it’s That Time of Year again, the issue has resurfaced.
Would somebody please explain to me why it is that I must have one of these in my home?
You’ve seen them, yes? The Elf on a Shelf?
It is likely that you have one.
You pick one of these things up online or at an overpriced boutique, read the accompanying book to your cherubs, prop the the creature on a shelf, and tell the cherubs it’s watching them for evidence of Naughtiness or Niceness.
How you doin’?
Friends? These dolls frighten me to no end.
My Desperate family needs one of these critters hanging around my home like I need another helping of leftover pumpkin pie with heaping dollops of giblets and cranberry sauce on the side.
Oh, I have Mommy Friends who own these things. They have staged all sorts of wacky hi-jinx revolving around the Elf on a Shelf.
Their elves have spilled flour upon the kitchen counters and finger-painted jolly holiday messages in the aftermath.
They have crept into lingerie drawers and hung unmentionables all over the Christmas tree.
They have attempted to drive the family car to Dunkin’ Donuts in the wee hours of the morning, only to playfully sideswipe the mailbox and derail their own escapade.
Which is all exceptionally creative hi-jinx, I must admit.
And I will have none of it.
I’m awful to think this way, I know.
I’m un-Christmasy and un-fun and un-
crazy playful because I refuse to buy into the hype.
Are we not bustling enough at this time of the year?
Aren’t we run ragged as it is?
Do I not have halls to deck and cookies to bake and class holiday parties to chaperone and gifts to wrap and wassailing to do?
I’d rather wassail – whatever that is – than own an Elf on a Shelf.
Do I really need to lay my head down to sleep at night, only to be jolted awake just five minutes shy of REM slumber with the realization that I have forgotten to hang Hattie from the rafters
or belly Buddy up to the kitchen island with a glass of scotch before him
or pose Penelope in front of the fireplace with a box of matches in her hand?
That is, if she had hands. Or feet.
Did I mention the creepy factor?
Someone make me understand. Someone help me see the error of my ways before it is too late and I am permanently drummed out of the running for the Mother of the Year Award.
I have room for that on my Desperate shelf.
Just not for an Elf on my shelf.