Step back from Christmas perfection
Call me a Grinch, but I really am starting to hate the Elf on the Shelf. Maybe hate is too strong a word. I bear the elf no malice. I simply would like him to go away, live out the rest of his days in peace at the North Pole, and never return to my house, leaving me at peace for the rest of my days.
I am over the hype. When I was a younger mother, 10 or so years ago, my children were given an Elf on the Shelf book and “scout elf” by their beloved adopted grandmother Cha Cha. She is a dear friend who adopted me when I was a young football coach’s wife living far away from my parents and by myself a great deal of the time because coaches work ridiculously long hours.
Little did she know, at the time she was feeding me dinner and helping me learn to do things like decorate my house, that she would get a family-sized deal in years to come as kids 1, 2, 3, and 4 were born.
Other than my own mother, known as the über-mother because she is the best mother ever, it is Cha Cha who is responsible for my aspirations to be the perfect mother. And that includes being a mother who celebrates large, makes everything fun, fills the home with beauty, and creates meaningful traditions her children will always cherish.
At Cha Cha’s house, Christmas is taken to another level. There’s a tree in every room—thematically adorned—a lighted porcelain village that represents New York City, a magnificent array of nutcrackers, and a collection of nativity sets from all over the world. You cannot look any direction at any angle without your eye resting on something exquisite, the perfect touch. Christmas at Cha Cha’s is magic.
Cha Cha was feeding the monster—and little monsters—she helped create when she got us the Elf on the Shelf. I loved him for a while. The kids named him Ginger, and I must say Ginger was the king of all elves for his first several seasons.
Sharing my motto that there is a time for extravagant gestures—Christmas in childhood definitely qualifies—Ginger bestowed gifts every day from Dec. 1 to 25. We awoke to squeals of delight when he would be found in his new spot by the kids, along with presents ranging from candy to money, matching Christmas wear, and buckets of Garrett’s cheese popcorn.
He also wrote them ardent letters extolling what wonderful children they were, listing good deeds he witnessed, and promises to relay glowing reports to Santa. This ritual repeated all month long until he finally returned to the North Pole for another year.
One time that trip was a disaster, as I forgot where the North Pole was, and after a frantic search through my closet and other hiding places, was forced to go purchase another Ginger the next Christmas. I’ve since located the original. So now we have twin-gers.
Whichever Ginger I can find normally performs such antics as spilling sugar on the counter and making snow angels, tangling himself in the lights of the tree, and— my personal favorite— filling the bathroom sink with mini-marshmallows and diving in, as if he’s taking a bubble bath.
When I saw that idea on Pinterest last year I asked my husband Stone to pick up marshmallows at the store. “Why exactly are we buying marshmallows to pretend they are bubbles for a felt-and-plastic elf we all treat as though it’s alive and has supernatural powers?” he asked. I don’t know, but I need two bags.
In theory I still like the idea of the elf as an expression of my expert mothering prowess. The problem with reality is that I am tired. My older kids complain that life is so much easier for the younger two than it was for them. Gone are the days of forced piano and violin practice and independent studies in Latin, Spanish, and French.
They also endured such horrors as limited screen time. Grace and Harper think I have slacked off as a parent to the point their younger siblings are ruined. They try to guilt me about this, but I tell them, “It’s not that I don’t want to be meaner. It’s just that I am older. I will show you I am not as sweet as I used to be either. I’m just too tired.”
As proof of my waning sweetness I offer the scaled-down Elf on the Shelf. These days he writes no notes and gives no gifts. The only times he generates excitement are when someone remembers to move him, and sadly, that’s not too often. I usually forget until the next morning when I see him in the same spot as the night before—when it is too late.
Adelaide, our teenager, has such pity for 9-year-old Stella that she has decided to take over elf duty. As a younger mother this would have meant failure. Now, in my more decrepit state, for this and other small mercies I say thanks be to God. I feel no shame.
On the contrary, I am proud of myself for giving Adelaide the chance to contribute to the Christmas cheer of her younger sister. I am now contemplating all of the other things I might possibly delegate to others, including Stella. There are dozens of cookies to be baked, cheeseballs and charcuterie boards to be assembled. Someone needs to make a gingerbread house. Presents need wrapping. I’ve only decorated one tree.
I think I’ll start a new Christmas tradition this year and invite every mother in America to join me. Instead of Elf on the Shelf, it will be Mom on the Couch. If you are the primary person in your family who makes Christmas happen for everyone else and you are tired, it is OK not to do it all this year, or any year. It is more than OK. It is good.
It is good for others to have service opportunities and learn new things. It is healthy for mothers (and fathers) to rest. And I am noticing—about my children, especially, but it’s true for anyone else watching—that it is good for others to see us rest. See us say no. See us content with simple, instead of always trying to do it all.
Over-achieving elves on shelves, Martha Stewart-type cookies, and ornaments and trimmings as perfect as Cha Cha’s truly are amazing. But sometimes the example of good enough is needed just as much. Sometimes we need to care less to keep from burning out.
So have yourself a lazy little Christmas. God rest ye, merry gentlemen and women. Our people need to see us not have to be perfect, not to have everything around us perfect every time, in order to have the perfect Christmas.