I wrote this at 4:30 a.m. while debating whether or not to get up for the third day in a row.  I felt it was best to share.

I love my traditions,

I’ve said so before.

But some “great ideas,”

I’ve learned to abhor.

The Elf on the Shelf,

His cute little face,

Seems to silently mock me,

In his new hiding place.

He knows I won’t remember,

How do I always forget?

Until 4 in the morning,

When I start to fret.

“Oh crap! Did I move him?”

“Where did he hide?”

I lie in bed awake,

My eyes open wide.

You may not speak little Elf,

But I hear what you say,

“Why start a tradition,

That brings angst every day?”

I swear someone told me,

That this would be fun.

If only I could remember,

I’d know who to shun.

At 6 a.m, my reminder,

Comes barreling down the stairs,

“Did you find him?” he questions,

With wide open stares.

“I haven’t, he’s sneaky,”

I always seem to say.

Little does he know, the Elf’s stealthness,

Is limited each day.

The joyful squeals of “I found him!”

And the giggles that follow,

Turns the lack of sleep and frustration,

Into discomfort I can swallow.

Congratulations Elf,

You can stay another night,

The tradition just won’t die,

Even if it really bites.

For those who don’t know the Elf on the Shelf tradition, the idea is a little adopted Elf watches your kids every day and reports back to Santa each night with tales of how good or bad they were. Then he hides somewhere in the house to be found the next day. Please note: my kids’ behaviors have not made any adjustments with his presence making the 4 a.m. reminders of his job not so pleasant.