It is the 5^th of December, and Archie, Sparkles and Ellie, Alison’s elves, have not arrived yet, the lazy sods. Gang, I have searched all the usual places, but I cannot put my hand on the troublesome trio. But I thought, it’s not a huge deal. After all, Alison is twelve now. She’s nearing the end of her first term in secondary school. She’s gone to two teenage discos, has experienced her first crush. Too old for elves, right? She caught me putting them in the blender a few years ago, with Lotso sitting on top, so the game was up; she knows it’s me. But as I write this very piece, I’ve just answered the door to a package ordered in a hurry, containing replacement elves. Honestly, the things we parents do for our (preteen) kids!

Just last night, when I was having the usual bedtime chats, Alison surprised me by asking whether the elves were coming back. Because she’s old enough, I told her the truth: that the original ones are missing, and that I ordered new ones to come and stay. To my surprise, she handed me her two foot ornamental gonk, winked at me, and said, “I wonder if this lad will turn magical and do something when we’re asleep tonight.” This morning, she found him sitting up in the bath, a handtowel wrapped around his waist. Surprise, surprise: I’m not too inventive at nearly eleven at night. Now, she didn’t exactly squeal in excitement, but there was definitely a hint of a smile on her face. Even though she’s now in secondary school, with a schoolbag heavier than an army tank, she’s still just my little girl looking for magic.

Like many parents of my generation, I got sucked into the Elf on the Shelf thing against my will. My friend introduced Archie to our home (if you’re reading this, thanks a bunch Kate!) when Alison was four. She’d already been introduced to an elf called Archie in playschool, a sort of mini-police officer dressed in red, that reported back to Santa on a daily basis. To be honest, the whole thing freaked me out a bit, not to mention the toy’s creepy little face. The whole idea behind it is to report behaviour to Santa. Oh, and apparently if you touch it, the elf loses its magic.

Neither of these things I have ever said to Alison. It was something she learned at playschool, and explained to me as I looked in wonder, pretending not to know where Archie had come from. Controversially, I decided that if Archie was going to be a fixture in our lives for at least the proceeding eight years, then I didn’t want him to be a tattle-tale to Santa. Alison was an only child, and she deserved to have an ally. Mum and Dad were always on her back; she didn’t need a creepy little doll watching her every move as well. She needed a confidant, someone she could have a laugh with.

As the years have flown by, the elves have been on so many adventures, from wallet robberies, to playing concerts to packed-out audiences and of course, Alison’s favourite – the winter wonderland, which is all our Christmas ornaments laid out on the coffee table and dusted with flour (always an absolute nightmare to clean up). I’m a writer, and this is one of the few times it’s paid off: Archie, Sparkles and Ellie write individual notes to Alison; each note has its own distinctive voice, and as she got older, Alison started to write back. I would argue that there is no greater writing exercise than trying to get into the quirky minds of imaginary elves, at eleven at night. And if she’d written to the fairies too, well, let’s say they were some of the few times I’d wished I was a coffee lover. I’m simultaneously proud and ashamed of the BS I’ve churned out over the years. Then, of course, you have to keep track of said BS, because although you can’t remember whether you said that Snowflake’s hair was red or blonde, Alison remembers. (Yet I can’t include these notes in a professional writing portfolio. The injustice!)

By the time Alison was nine or ten, I was starting to run out of ideas for the elves. Think about it – six years times twenty-five days meant 125 different elf antics, all in the confines of my house! Two years ago, in desperation, I turned to Facebook and followed the Elf Idea pages, hoping for new antics. Some of the ideas are so elaborate I wonder if these people have jobs. Nonetheless, I’m all for making Christmas magic – to a point, of course.

This morning, however, as I was scrolling through Facebook instead of doing my morning pages (an exercise, a bit like this blog, where you write pure crap in the hope of eventually hitting gold), I came across a post from a parent who wanted the elf to punish the child for not doing well in a school test! If that wasn’t fecked up enough, other parents offered suggestions! Now, of course on bad days, I’ve pointed out to Alison that Archie, Sparkles and Ellie are reporting back to Santa, but my husband and I decided that we were the parents, *we* needed to take sole responsibility for disciplining Ali if and when necessary. I did threaten her once or twice, but on those rare occasions the elves have written saying that although Alison was naughty, they knew that she was a good child, a human child who makes mistakes. A lesson that, over the years, the elves have been more successful at teaching her than we ever could have been. A reminder to a little girl who is sometimes too hard on herself, that she, too, can make mistakes and still be loved.

This may be a bit controversial, but the idea of a wiry doll dressed in red holding a kid to account for their behaviour doesn’t sit well with me. Santa is one thing, but he’s not a physical presence in your house, and isn’t that the beauty of it? Can any of us, child or adult, be good and “well-behaved” every hour of the day? I think not. So why has expecting this behaviour from children, especially at a time of the year when they’re exhausted from routines and early mornings, not to mention friendships and the chaos of afterschool sports and matches, become the norm?

Talking to a disappointed Alison last night made us both so emotional. Because the truth is she needs those elves. It’s a form of communication between us about things that might be difficult to express. A reminder that we all need a bit of silliness in our lives, that we deserve to be loved in our best and worst times. And if that’s what those silly red dolls represent to my daughter, then I’d better go and google enough antics for the next twenty years, obviously while staying away from those stupid Facebook groups.

My little girl might not be so little anymore, but she’s reminded me that the little things are still the big things. And I’m so excited to see the look on her face when she comes home today.