I was chatting to a girl in work recently who is normally sanguine and imperturbable. (Then again, compared to me, most people are.) It was thus a surprise when she let forth a string of invective on Monday which, even for a Monday, had a distinctly maritime feel. If you too are a parent of younger children perhaps you find yourself in the same boat (pardon the pun.) December has landed, and alongside festive cheer and anxiety it brings with it another annoyance- the bastarding elf on the shelf. If you want to know how to make twenty-four days in December feel longer than Dry January and Lent put together, then go ahead and invite this torment into your lives.
This lady I mentioned earlier summed up exactly the frustration I used to feel myself in this scenario- falling into bed, fatigue laden and grateful for a soft duvet, anticipating a lovely sleep when the thought appears, Where’s the effing ELF!!
One invariably finds that the partner who has ordered the elf, having been cajoled into doing it because ‘the elf visits other people’s houses so why not ours?’ is the one who is either blissfully snoring or clean out of ideas to do with elves at exactly six minutes to midnight.
When I asked my offspring whether they missed their bygone Elf on the Shelf days, only for them to shrug and say no, they didn’t. When pressed further, as to why they had no fond memories of the demonic sprite who had wrecked the advent period for me for five consecutive years, they said, ‘Well, he didn’t really do much.’
‘HE DIDN’T REALLY DO MUCH?’ I spluttered. Well, the Mothership could have heard me in Bangor, such was my ire.
‘There was the thing in the bathroom once,’ offered the Small Child. Trust my children to remember something scatological, I thought, although I couldn’t recall doing anything too toilety with an elf. I know some elf zealots get busy with chocolate fondant icing but to me that was a step too far. In a house with multiple animals and small children one sees enough excrement, without having to fashion replicates. Yes, piped up the Older One. You wrote, ‘I’m back’ on the bathroom mirror in red lipstick. ‘Did I? I can’t remember,’ I mused.
‘And once, you strung some tights round the lights over the kitchen island and said he was on a zip line.’ I didn’t remember that either. And that was the conversation closed. Two things, they recalled, two things their elf did, and frankly, they were both a bit shite.
I vividly recall having him build Lego and ice buns and putting little floury footprints over work surfaces. He drew portraits and wrote notes and yes, admittedly, there were occasions when I stuck him in the Christmas Tree for three days with a note that said, ‘I’ve been too naughty so I’m here learning manners,’ but the rest of the time he had a fairly packed schedule.
So, my message is this: children forget things. When it comes to elves on shelves, the ratio to aggravation versus appreciation rests firmly on the former.
Before I posted this, I searched the blog to see what I’d written before on this topic. And there, in 2022 as though to spite me, was a post where I actually spoke up in FAVOUR of elf antics. All I can say is that I must have been hotting the drink when I wrote it. Hard. I don’t remember it with much delight, in retrospect, and more importantly, neither do my children! So consider yourselves off the hook, ye who ponder whether to be assed or not.
