Tag Archives: Holidays

Running from Elves

There are holiday traditions no one asked for and yet, like Aunt Linda’s fruitcake, they appear every year anyway. The weight gain, the mandatory family gatherings, the office party with that one co-worker who treats the mistletoe like a binding legal contract. But towering above them all, in a tiny polyester outfit, is the most dreaded tradition of all: the Elf on the Shelf.

This is the year the elf went from “whimsically impish” to “kid-sized federal parole officer.” I have had it up to my eyeballs with this smug little narc. At one point, he went missing for two days, which sounds dramatic until you realize he was just hitchhiking to work in my backpack, because I was too exhausted to stage yet another whimsical overnight scene involving dental floss, flour, and a crime-scene-level cleanup.

Christmas really wrung me out this year. I flirted with the idea of putting the tree up before Thanksgiving, but only in the same way people say they “might run a marathon someday” while eating nachos. By mid-December, the decorations, the gifts for co-workers, the gifts for children and extended family, the holiday baking, and the festive obligation to appear merry at all times all merged into one long, glitter-covered to-do list that I trudged through like a mall Santa on December 24th.

As of today, December 26th, the tree is coming down, the lights are going back into their natural tangled state, and every piece of decor is being evicted to the attic until further notice. Less stuff, less visual noise, fewer things silently screaming for attention from every flat surface. Overstimulation is my default setting these days; between the stroke fallout and regular life, my brain processes “holiday cheer” about as well as a dial-up modem processes streaming video, and last night it all bottlenecked into an ugly, paralyzing cry on the couch.

So here’s the moral, from one frazzled human to the world: be kind to your mom. All of this holiday magic is powered by a tired person who is probably one Elf misstep away from a nervous breakdown. Be kind to everyone, really, because even if nothing “big” is going wrong, the endless pressure of “all the things” can be enough to send someone sliding into the new year held together with tape, tinsel, and a questionable amount of peppermint mocha.

Running from Holidays

It’s a peculiar thing, really—this unwritten law that mothers must moonlight as the chief engineers of all holiday enchantment. If there’s a magical event on the calendar, odds are I’m the one quietly orchestrating it from behind the curtain, like some seasonal Imagineer with a glue gun and a to-do list. Santa Claus? That’s me. Easter Bunny? Also me. Leprechaun? For reasons as mysterious as the origins of Figment, yes, me again. Meanwhile, my husband approaches Christmas morning with the same wide-eyed astonishment as a tourist discovering a second entrance to EPCOT—utterly delighted, blissfully unaware, and, crucially, not the one who wrapped the monorail set.

Last Christmas, my oldest, in a moment of honesty only a child or a particularly blunt park guest can muster, asked if perhaps I’d been a “bad girl” since Santa had forgotten to bring me anything. I shot my husband a glare so frigid it could’ve closed Blizzard Beach for the season, then shrugged and moved on. Sometimes, you have to pick your battles, especially when your only weapons are tinsel and a patience level that’s dropping faster than Rise of the Resistance boarding groups.

Now, if you think holiday magic is just a matter of popping into Target and grabbing whatever’s on the endcap, let me assure you: this is a covert operation of the highest order. My children are drawn to hidden presents like guests to free Wi-Fi, and will sniff out even the best-laid plans with the tenacity of a Disney blogger hunting for soft openings. Thus, I’ve developed hiding spots so ingenious that I occasionally lose track of them myself, leading to the annual spring tradition of “Why is there a Hatchimals egg in the linen closet?”

And let’s talk about the gifts themselves. There is a very specific subset of toys—tiny plastic things, anything that shrieks, and games requiring adult participation—that I avoid with the same fervor I reserve for rope-dropping a park on a holiday weekend. There’s only so much forced merriment one can endure before considering a strategic retreat to the garage with a mug of something “festive.”

So, here’s to the mothers: the unsung Imagineers of the festive season, the ones who keep the magic alive, year after relentless year. And let us not forget our shared, silent loathing for that infernal Elf on the Shelf, who, much like a malfunctioning animatronic, always seems to cause more trouble than he’s worth.

Happy holidays, and may your patience last longer than the line for Peter Pan’s Flight.