When I was pregnant I made a list of things that I was going to ban from my house upon my children’s arrival: Crocs, Tickle Me Talking Elmo, slime, playdoh, all battery-operated toys, and light-up sneakers — to name just a few. But had I known about you, Elf on the Friggin Shelf, you would have been right up there at the top of the list.

Back then, as I waddled around gorging myself on festive carbs, I was blissfully unaware that you and your jingle-bell-festooned get-up were sweeping the nation, fast becoming a Christmas fixture for unsuspecting parents everywhere. Being out of the loop gives you a certain sense of liberty and ignorance, after all.

Then, several years into my children’s lives, just when the whole concept of Christmas was becoming an utterly excessive spectacle of indulgence that they owned with gusto, my mother-in-law showed up — with you! And, before I could stop her, she ignited what has become a ridiculous family tradition. 

I must admit that initially, I saw the benefits of your presence. You gave me hope that I could wield a new level of control over my children’s behaviour, particularly during the silly season. Because, let’s be honest, no child will ever mess with Santa, nor his friendly little eyes and ears. And that’s where I thought you, Elf on the Shelf, would come in handy.

I quickly learned that you are, in fact, just a secret ploy disguised as an act of kindness, sent to torture me for being a parent. But I played the game regardless. I thought, how long could it really last? My children are eight and ten, and already they’ve noticed that the wrapping paper for the gifts they receive from Santa looks suspiciously like the roll they found his in the back of the hallway cupboard. I know, that they know, that I know, and that they are keeping this very telling fact to themselves. Because why would they do anything to jeopardise their gifts on Christmas Day? Without Santa and his special, overflowing Santa sack on the bedroom door, their gifts would be halved, and their magical and overindulgent Christmas mornings would change forever.  

So, of course, we continue this little ruse, promoting you as the ‘eyes and ears’ of the Big Guy, sending back reports on any bad behaviour. I figure I have one more year of decking the halls and moving you around in the dead of night. One more year and then, you’re done. 

Don’t get me wrong. I’m really not a Scrooge. I admit that I sometimes feel warm and fuzzy when I look at you, Elf on the Friggin Shelf, and am filled with nostalgia for the joys of Christmas past. But now, when I have to set my alarm to move you to yet another, creepy location in the middle of the night, from where you can ‘spy on us’, and then come up with some sort of soft, yet clearly threatening written verse encouraging my children to exhibit good behaviour (including stopping their daily menacing of the cat), I don’t feel quite so warm-hearted.

I’m also not feeling creative. My daughter recently expressed her disappointment in you. She doesn’t think you’re very “sneaky.” Sometimes you forget to move or write a new message for several days. Apparently, you are a bit of a dud — which, indirectly, means that I am a dud. Thanks for that. So to assist your creativity, Elf, I recently knocked back a few spiked eggnogs and left you, and your rather sternly-worded note with a naked Barbie and Ken in an age-inappropriate position. You see what type of a person I have become having to play along with this ridiculous ruse? 

It was so much easier when I was a kid. Santa came down the chimney, dumped a couple of random presents that I definitely did not ask for, nor want, and went on his merry way. Now, I have to leave sparkly reindeer food, cookies, milk and beer out for the Big Man and his team. I have to hide gifts, disguise my handwriting on name tags, secretly wrap presents, and go to some extreme (potentially illegal) lengths to get my hands on the newest Jellycat that is, of course, sold out and does not ship to New Zealand. How much can one parent handle?

So, view this as your last hurrah, mate. Maybe this year, throw a little of that magical imagination of yours into the mix. Perhaps you could draft a few words of forceful encouragement to my children, suggesting they direct some of their Christmas cheer towards the person that has given them the gloriously indulgent life they enjoy so much. Maybe she is deserving of a faraway tropical island escape this summer. Sans children, obviously. Now that sounds like the ultimate Christmas cheer.