I’m not a psychologist, nor have I ever completed that psychology minor I dreamed of during my college days. However, it doesn’t take an expert to recognize that I often lean on humor as a way to cope with my emotions. I use laughter to mask pain and reframe uncomfortable feelings into something more digestible.
Take the Elf on the Shelf, for instance. I’ve joked about it like many others, claiming I’m too busy or too lazy to engage with it. The truth? My laziness is real, but it goes deeper than that. The Elf on the Shelf brings back memories of a childhood elf that my brother and I used to cherish.
Every December, my brother and I would play hide and seek with that elf. He’d hide it in our living room while I searched, and he’d tease me from his oversized green chair, laughing as I scrambled to find it. As the years went by, the hiding spots became more elaborate, and our playful banter grew louder. We played that game through the years, far beyond the age where we should have outgrown it. It became our special holiday tradition, one I eagerly anticipated every Christmas. I hope he felt the same way.
But that was before he passed away two years ago, a tragic loss to suicide. Now, every time I see that elf, I’m flooded with emotions—pain, regret, and a tightness in my chest. I can’t help but wonder if he was battling his own demons while we played our beloved game. Did he remember those joyful moments when he felt alone during the holidays? It’s a thought I can’t linger on, so I often resort to humor to push those feelings away.
Recently, however, everything changed. My kids, filled with innocence and excitement, asked me for an elf. We had just enjoyed a delightful afternoon visiting Santa and sharing laughs over lunch. While shopping for a friend’s gift, we stumbled upon a display of elves. My heart raced as I walked past, knowing the emotional turmoil it would bring up, but my children stopped and asked with such hopeful eyes.
“Mom, can we get this?” my son asked earnestly, and I saw the same eagerness mirrored in my daughter’s face. I felt my defenses soften, but then the memories came rushing back—the laughter with my brother, the moments that I can never relive. I struggled to hold back tears.
“I’ll buy it with my own money,” my son insisted, and in that moment, I let go of my wall. I agreed to buy the elf for them, but I decided to do things a little differently. “In our house, the elf will work differently,” I explained. “You’ll take turns hiding it. One night, your sister will hide it for you to find, and then it’ll be your turn to hide it for her.”
Both of them eagerly nodded, and as we drove home, they excitedly named our new elf and planned who would hide her first. Their laughter filled the car, and I couldn’t help but feel a bittersweet joy. Listening to them play with that elf reminded me of the happiness I shared with my brother, a time filled with love and simple joys.
So, in a way, our Christmas tradition lives on, evolving from my cherished memories into new ones with my children.
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Summary
The author reflects on the emotional significance of the Elf on the Shelf, connecting it to childhood memories with a lost sibling. Despite initial resistance, the author embraces the tradition anew with their children, creating a new spin on an old beloved game while honoring the past.
Keyphrase: Elf on the Shelf memories
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