I have a confession to make. A confession about Elf on the Shelf. One that might stun you. Before I start let me set the scene: I have three children; with them I have seen Christmas nine times. Nine month-long celebrations of tinsel and wilting pine trees.
Nine scrambles to shop online (because who wants to drag kids around Westfield only to realise when you start pulling out boxes from their hidden holes on Christmas Eve that you have bought way too much for one child and not enough for another.)
Nine years of over cooked turkeys and underdone spuds. And after nine years, I still don’t know what Elf on the Shelf is. I don’t know how I missed it.
Sometime between my first born’s elaborate hand crafted beautifully wrapped first Christmas and then number three’s arrival (which saw Christmas descend into a frenzy of brightly-coloured plastic toys and whoops-I-forgot-to-order-you-a-hand-embroidered-stocking-just-use-this-pillow-case) this phenomenon arrived and I missed it.