I’m not a trained psychologist or therapist, and I never did manage to complete that psychology minor I aimed for in college. However, it doesn’t take a degree to recognize that humor is often my go-to coping mechanism. I tend to mask pain with laughter, and I reshape sadness into something easier to digest.
Take the Elf on the Shelf, for instance. I’ve made jokes about it, just like many others have. I act like I’m too busy or too lazy to engage with it. But that’s only partly true; I confess I am a bit lazy. The more painful reality is that the Elf on the Shelf brings back memories of an elf from my childhood—a bittersweet reminiscence.
Growing up, my brother and I would play hide and seek with that elf every December. He’d hide it around the living room, while I searched, with him sitting comfortably in an oversized green chair, playfully teasing me with hints about whether I was getting “hotter” or “colder.” After I found it, we would laugh, and then it was my turn to hide the elf. As the years rolled by, the hiding spots became more elaborate, and the laughter more joyful.
We played this game every holiday season, even when we were no longer kids. It was our unique tradition, one that brought me immense joy every Christmas. I like to think he cherished it too.
But now I use the past tense. My brother is gone, lost to suicide a little over two years ago. Whenever I see that elf, I can’t help but feel a tightness in my chest and tears welling up. I wonder if he was battling profound depression while we played. Did he ever reminisce about our game during the Christmases when he was alone? It’s too painful to ponder, so I mask those thoughts with humor.
Last weekend, however, everything shifted when my kids asked for an elf. It was a delightful afternoon—we had visited Santa, enjoyed a fun lunch filled with laughter, and were out shopping when we stumbled upon the elf in a toy store.
I tried to walk past the display, but my children, blissfully unaware of the emotional weight that elf carries for me, stopped in their tracks. My son picked up an elf and asked, “Mom, can we get this?” His earnest and hopeful expression tugged at my heart, and I softened a little.
Suddenly, my mind was flooded with memories of Christmases spent with my brother. The rush of nostalgia was overwhelming, and I felt tears threatening to spill. “I’ll pay for it with my own money,” my son chimed in, and in that moment, I surrendered to the hurt. I told him I’d buy the elf, and he didn’t have to pay.
As I placed the elf in the shopping cart, I decided to create new traditions. “In our house,” I explained, “the elf works differently. You two will take turns hiding him.” I looked at my son and added, “One night, your sister will hide the elf for you to find, and then it will be your turn. You can even play hide and seek with the elf during the day.” They both eagerly agreed, and the car ride home was filled with their chatter about naming our new elf and deciding who would hide her first.
Now, as I listen to their delighted giggles, I’m reminded of those cherished moments with my own brother. Though I can never go back to that time, I find solace in the joy my kids bring to this new tradition—a simple game with an elf, filled with love and laughter. A Christmas tradition that lives on.
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Summary:
The author reflects on the emotional significance of the Elf on the Shelf, recalling joyful childhood memories with a brother who has since passed away. While initially resistant to the elf tradition, the author ultimately embraces it for their children, creating new memories and a sense of joy that honors the past.