Have yourself an elfie little Christmas

'Tis the season, friends. All is merry. All is bright. All is calm. Unless you forgot to move the damn elf.

I've looked into it, and here's the thing of it. I'm pretty sure when Santa Claus decided to send forth his minion army of Elves on Shelves, it wasn't done with an innate desire to torture all parents.

"Oooooh boy," he thought, as he rested his laptop on his ample middle, typing up the final details of the plot-to-end-all-Christmas-joy-for-parents. "This'll get 'em!" Not so much, though, right? I'm pretty sure it was just created to bring along a smile or two to the children. And a bajillion dollars to its actual creator, but that's a whole other story.

I actually have a secret about the whole elf thing; it may or may not make you want to punch me.

I love our elf. 

Let me be clear on this. I have most certainly directed a middle finger (or two) at Sprinkles at roughly 11:47 pm upon the realization that he still needed to fly for the night. I have thrown my pajama-clad children out of the way at 6:03 am to race down the stairs, only to move the elf seconds before they start looking. There's no greater panic at this stage in our parenting lives. (And for this I am thankful.) But to keep the magic alive? You bet your bowl full of jelly that I haul my Christmas ass out of bed and move that thing.

And this is the reason:

Here the boys shall sit. All day, all night. Lost in the magic.

At this stage of the game, this is what actual true love looks like.

Sprinkles even inspired a serious kindergarten portrait.
They perch together, life imitating art.

Because Sprinkles is a member of our family. True story.

The boys love him with every fiber of their being. They talk about him all year long, predicting exactly when he might return from the North Pole. They tell him secrets. ("Sprinkles, we really want a dog!") (To which I whisper at a later hour, "No elfing way, Sprinks.") They screech with delight when they find him upon his initial return, and then again each and every morning until his departure on Christmas Eve. And they cry - real, actual tears of sadness - each year when he has gone back to be with his elf family. They miss him so fiercely, which some may see as freakishly unhealthy, but I figure this: their emotion is real. Their love is real. And for them to feel so much love for one more thing in life, even if he is small and red and creepy-as-hell? Why not? With each day, their hearts beat stronger and with more love and more joy and more emotion. I'm happy to raise boys who can love something - anything - with so much passion. Hopefully one day their love will be transferred to a few daughters-in-law worthy of their passion, their own house full of chubby, angelic faces, and one stealthy, red elf perched above it all.

One more night, friends. We can do this.

And then, I allow you to shove that little punk back from whence he came.

Merry Christmas, everyone. May the joy of the season be yours.