Every year it's the same thing. Families stuff themselves on Thanksgiving and then the next day brings, no not sales, but…The Elf on a Shelf. I spent about seven blissful years not having to worry about the little red visitor (no, not THAT visitor) who invaded my home every Christmas season. But, once I remarried and had 2 additional sons, my sister in law just had to introduce them to that Elf. He (or she if you have daughters) watches your kids during the day and then returns to the North Pole every night to tattle, I mean, tell Santa how the kids are behaving. Of course, the elves need assistance getting around, so now, every night until Christmas Eve, my husband and I (and many other parents) are forced to move these little creatures around the house to make our children behave.

I cannot tell you how many times I have forgotten to move the elves (yes, we have been blessed with more than one. It seems my boys each want their own private surveillance). I would wearily climb all the way up to my bedroom and settle down as if for a long winter's nap, and it would hit me. It was back downstairs for me. Now it is after midnight and I am pacing around my house trying to find a new and innovative way to hide these little buggers. There are so many places that an elf can hide where it cannot be touched (did I forget to mention that touching them means certain death and some pissed off children?). But, nothing gets the adrenaline pumping in the morning than to realize that you have forgotten to move them, and your kids are stirring in their beds.

It reminds something one of my friends said, "I can't believe anybody would celebrate a holiday where a jolly prowler breaks into your house and leaves gifts." Ah, Squidward, if you think that's bad, try three tiny stalkers invading your home for a few weeks.

And just the other day, one of my sons made the most interesting observation: "Mommy, I saw a tag on the elf. How come he's a toy?" Now the real fun begins.