Kill The Elf

When Vivian was born, we were still traveling back to Texas to see family for Christmas. It was exhausting (to say the least), so once she turned 4, we started celebrating at home. With that came the establishment of our traditions- getting stockings, buying a plate for Santa cookies, and the discussion of what we would and wouldn’t bring from our families that we grew up with.

The Elf on the Shelf was a topic of discussion, but only for a second. It had cropped up around 2007, well before we were married with a daughter. Between me and Landon, I can’t remember who asked and who responded, “Do you care if we do that?” “No,” but the unifying feeling was that the Elf on the Shelf sucked shit, and no one wants that mess in our house. We (I) have to create a magical scene every morning? Or week? Or weekend? Doesn’t matter, we skipped, and no one noticed.

Now that Vivian is eleven, she’s pretty used to hearing the stories from her friends. They arrive to school every morning in December with their tales of the elves that drank all the hot chocolate, or got trapped in the kitchen overnight and made cupcakes, or stole the socks out of the laundry. I’m honestly so bored even thinking about it.

You- yes, you- should bail. Bounce. Ghost this whole elf sham that you bought into. This is just labor for the moms- MORE labor, that is- and it’s bullshit. We are already busy buying the gifts, mailing the cards, shopping for the in-laws, all while maintaining our regularly busy lives of work/kids/friends. Why does this tiny terrorist get to come in and ruin our evenings? Our glorious evenings that are meant for RHOSLC and TikTok?

Now there are some of you who truly enjoy this recent tradition. You plan your Elf month on Pinterest, buy miniature props, even stay up late baking. This help is not for you. SKIP THIS POST.

This advice is for those of you (the many, many, many of you) that hate this. You hate it so much. Each year when you unpack your holiday gear, you lift up the stockings, and there it is. His dead-eyed smile, his unnaturally bendy limbs, his dumbass hat. What the fuck is he smiling at?!

Take a breath. I have an idea.

You’re going to kill the elf.

Picture it: one random December morning, your son or daughter comes out of their bedroom and heads straight for their advent calendar. Nothing like a shot of chocolate before breakfast. After downing their chocolate Santa hat, they peak around the corner to see what the elf is doing. They’ve even named him- Buddy, probably.

But wait. This morning feels different. Buddy isn’t in the dining room. He isn’t in the kitchen. Nope, not in the living room. But where-

They look up. Something is swinging from the ceiling fan, creating an unfamiliar “thumping” noise. No, it can’t be- it’s too awful. “Mom!” They scream, turning away from the horrible hanging elf, tiny X’s where his eyes should be. Maybe a smidge of blood in the corner of his mouth (this is where your creativity can really shine!). RIP Buddy.

Don’t love it? Maybe a suicide is too graphic for a 6-year-old. I get it.

Instead, your daughter comes into the kitchen to see what Buddy got up to last night and finds him crushed by a tree branch (or house plant, for scale), dead in the sink. Less blood, same amount of finality.

No plants in the house? Want something that leaves less to the imagination?

Let’s say you have two kids. The older one is guaranteed to have a toy that scares the younger one. A classic use-what-you-have situation! Ideally, the scary toy is an action figure, something that might commit murder in the darkness of night. Your younger son finishes his cereal, and realizes he hasn’t seen Buddy or Elfy or whatever the fuck his name is, it doesn’t matter. He gets up, goes into the den, and sees not one but two of his older brother’s action figures standing over the elf’s corpse, its limbs removed by the fabric scissors they found on the gift wrapping table. Blood everywhere.

Worried about traumatizing your kids during Christmas?

Think of it as teaching them about death, which is a necessary skill to have. This is particularly important if they haven’t lost a pet or older relative yet.

Still feeling squeamish? A “Dear John” letter will suffice! The elf had to go back to the North Pole, sorry, things got complicated and it’s nothing personal but they have to leave forever, but Santa will still be showing up to make your wildest dreams come true etc. etc. don’t forget to tip your waitress.

I still vote for death. Trust me, the best gift you can give yourself will be murdering that tiny demon. No return guaranteed.

Merry Christmas.