By Brandi Puga of Big Fit Fam
When “The Elf On The Shelf” first came out, I swore our family wouldn’t be sucked in.
The holidays are stressful enough without having to remember to hide a slightly creepy, weirdly stiff stuffed toy each night before bed….or, more correctly, how quickly can you come up with a crazy explanation as to why the elf hasn’t moved since yesterday morning?
“Remember yesterday when you didn’t clean your room like Mommy asked? The Elf obviously didn’t like that….so he became petrified…like wood…so be good…”
Well, obviously, after numbers of years of begging and watching their cousins have soon much fun with their beady-eyed Santa’s helper, we caved and had one delivered to our door.
They freaking adore this bastard.
I woke up this morning 45 minutes before my alarm would go off to the excited tinkling of tiny voices. I didn’t think much of it. I hadn’t slept well and neither had the baby, so I plopped my pillow over my head and closed my eyes.
Before long a little human flopped on top of me. Apparently someone forgot to pee in the potty instead of their bed, but that’s not the most annoying part.
“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! Mama, Mama! I wanna find Huckleberry Snow (our Elf’s name) all by myself!”
What the crap?! OMG, it’s freaking December 1st, and that little demon is supposed to have made an entrance!
And so, while I wondered how to hide an elf that has already been searched for for an entire hour, I also silently plotted his demise.
Maybe we could cover him in peanut butter and hide him in the dog’s bed? I have images of a ripped up red suit, a hat that will not be found until someone picks up the dog poo the next day. Fudge. My plan will be foiled by our obnoxiously good dog who has never destroyed anything. I need Cujo, darnit!
Perhaps he could hide in the oven and our morning could be started with amaze-balls cinnamon rolls. He won’t be found until, sadly, the oven has already preheated and his face has melted off.
Or, Mr. Huckleberry might choose to hide in the bathroom, precariously perched above the commode. He might slip on some precariously placed soap and fall into someone’s poo (’cause no one in the house flushes ANYTHING). Such sanitary disaster would call for a watery burial for the Elf.
I believe I had a scary sneer on my face while daydreaming of Huckleberry Snow’s death. The freedom of not worrying about re-hiding the little devil, much less coming up with new and fun adventures for him to have been on during the night, is just too exciting not to smile about. If Huckleberry Snow disappeared, kidnapped by an angry yeti on the naughty list, I wouldn’t have to clean up his powdered sugar snow angels, or the confetti he throws around in celebration, or sacrifice my ice cream to his whims.
It would be glorious.
For me.
My children, however, would be devastated beyond belief. They have become very attached to this plague that infects our house before Christmas.
I guess I have to admit that his appearance suddenly fills the home with an excitement that is unparalleled by any other tradition.
I guess I will endeavor not to OFF him just yet. How many more years do I have with him? OMG, at least 10.
Is there a wine elf that could come for me? Snowflake Sangria would be the perfect name. Or Merry Merlot. Chappy Chardonnay. Now I’m thirsty.
This post was originally published on Big Fit Fam.
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About the Author
Brandi is a mother of 5 and workout enthusiast. She spends her time cooking and attempting to keep up with housework, but generally failing. She also works part time as a bartender and blogger. You can check out her blog at bigfitfam.com.