I have flour in my hair.
All day I’ve been pretending that it’s dry shampoo, but it’s not.
Last night at 11pm, I dumped a pile flour onto a plate and squatted down to arrange some felt toys in it, aiming to create the illusion that my (sorry, my kids’) two Elves On The Shelves were frolicking in a snow storm. The final effect was more one of two swingers wrestling at a Colombian costume party, but no matter. It was late, the end of a long day.
Cut to this morning, 6am, my eyes are barely open: “Mum, the elves are sitting in a pile of flour and we don’t know why.”
“Maybe it’s snow,” I mutter, rolling over.
“Why would it be snow? It’s Summer,” my ever-reasonable daughter asks. “Anyway, when are our elves going to do something fun? Like a treasure hunt? Like leave us little notes all over the house to find? Or some eggs that turn into chocolate eggs…. or…”
“I DON’T KNOW,” I’m sitting up, the day is truly upon me. “The elves are MAGIC. I can’t tell them what to do.”
My daughter looks doubtful, my son joins in. “I wish they were harder to find,” he says. “Our elves are pretty boring.”
Welcome to the particular hell that is The Elf On The Shelf. Those creepy little felt dolls that truly represent everything that’s wrong with modern parenting.
Mamamia Out Loud is the podcast with what women are talking about. On this episode Holly Wainwright explains what an ‘Elf on the shelf’ is and Jessie and Mia ask her why the heck she’s doing it. Post continues below.
Today’s parents are boringly busy. Ask us how we are, we’ll tell you: “Manic.” “Crazy”. “Flat out”. “Crawling to the end of the year”.
It’s the default answer for any adult with a job, a smart phone and a couple of extra responsibilities. Like mine, ages six and eight.
The juggling started at birth, and has continued, unrelentingly, up and down the terrifying learning curve of babyworld, through the crippled-by-the-cost-of-childcare years, into the ‘Shit, I forgot to do the home reader’ phase and – in my house – is currently skidding through ‘No, I can’t come on that excursion’ mode.
We’re busy, and we’re guilty. The guilt comes hand in fist with the busyness, and it’s every bit as boring. Basically, most of the adults I know are in a constant state of repentance for all things they’re not doing for their children. Whipping ourselves with questionable reminiscences of calm, home-cooked family meals, a time when no-one was in a whirl of rushed yelling and there were unstructured hours set aside for baking and learning the names of all your children’s friends.