My (single, with no children) friend Billy posted the best rant on Facebook the other day. "Dear All Parents with 'Elf On The Shelf,'" he wrote, "Make that shit a priority. I don't want to hear any more whining about 'I forgot...' or 'I'm a bad parent.' Pretty soon your kids won't believe in Santa Claus and his annoying little elves, and it's your job to make them wonder. It's like 24 days. Suck it up. I still believe in Santa, and I'm 35."
I mean, don't get me wrong: I love Elf on the Shelf season. But I also have a tendency to pass out in my daughter's toddler-sized bed while "snuggling for a minute" and then wake up three hours later with my eyelids mascara-ed shut, at which point I commence the shuffle towards my own bed only to be shaken awake by my brain, who is yelling at me to MOVE THE ELF SO YOU DON'T DESTROY THE MAGIC.