Fixing Flashy Thomas McSleighBells

The great elf rescue

Three years ago, during a casual after-school debrief, somewhere between what he’d had for lunch and the latest playground drama, Thomas calmly announced that, of course, Santa Claus wasn’t real. His reasoning, delivered with the confident logic of an eight-year-old: no one, not even Santa, could possibly make it around the entire world in one night. Case closed.

Of course, we protested - what was Christmas magic for, if not this very purpose? But Thomas was having none of it.

Honestly, I felt more relieved than disappointed. It was sad to think that magic would be consigned to the realm of make believe, but mostly, it was a relief. No more obsessively tracking Santa’s GPS progress like air traffic control. No more scattering glitter and oats across the driveway at dusk, only to creep back out later, shivering in the freezing cold, to sweep it all away. Because, naturally, the reindeer would have eaten every last bit! And I could finally stop the mental gymnastics required to explain how a rather large man could possibly squeeze down a non-existent chimney.

There was also the small matter of cooking brandy, the only spirit I could find from the back of the cupboard one year, eating half a mince pie late at night dreading the indigestion and heartburn that awaited me in the early hours of the morning. Not forgetting the carrots for the reindeer, carefully nibbled to leave just the right amount of “evidence,” only to be rediscovered later by the dogs, who turned the leftovers into something that looked suspiciously like reindeer vomit…

And then there was the annual awkwardness of explaining how, yes, Santa brought the presents except the ones clearly labelled from us, because, frankly, why should a magical stranger get all the credit for the good stuff?

But the biggest win? No more elf escapades. No more staying up until 1 a.m. orchestrating complex shenanigans for Eric, Esmerelda, and their little sidekick, Flashy Thomas McSleighBells. I was finally free.

Or so I foolishly believed...

If Santa isn’t real, that means the easter bunny isn’t real either, right?

Wrong.

Easter rolled around, and there was no escape from the high-stakes hunt that awaited. The Easter Bunny, it seemed, was still expected to leave a trail of mini eggs, crème eggs, Lindt bunnies, and cryptic clues scattered across the house and garden, transforming the children into little sleuths on a sugar-fuelled quest for the ultimate prize: the legendary Easter egg.

And the tooth fairy? What about her? Surely if there was no Santa, there wasn’t a tooth fairy either?

Wrong again.

The moment a tooth wobbled free, the expectation was set, glittering coins had to appear under the pillow, delivered by a stealthy winged banker in the dead of night.

November arrives, and I dare to hope, just for a moment, that this might finally be the year we’re free from the late-night elf antics. But no such luck. To my dismay, Thomas excitedly announces that December 1st is just around the corner, and with it, the arrival of Eric, Esmerelda, and Flashy Thomas McSleighBells from the North Pole.

And, of course, they’ll be bringing advent calendars. Because at some point, in a moment of spectacular parenting miscalculation, we decided the elves should handle those. Never mind the fact that every shop is bursting with advent calendars. No, ours had to be special deliveries from the elves. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

Next dilemma: Do I remind Thomas of his very matter-of-fact declaration that Santa isn’t real? Because, logically, if Santa’s out, why on earth would mischievous elves be flying in from the North Pole every December to spy on him and his sister, reporting back to a non-existent man with a naughty-and-nice list?

Or… do I lean into the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he still kind of believes, and milk it for all it’s worth to secure good behaviour for the next 24 days?

If you are not acquainted with the tradition of the elf on the shelf, let me enlighten you. It's a little festive tradition where a small elf, sent from the North Pole by Santa himself, arrives in your home in early December to keep an eye on the children. Every night, this cheeky little elf "flies" back to Santa to report on who’s been naughty or nice, and each morning, the elf is found in a new spot, often getting up to all sorts of mischief. Think of it as an ongoing game of hide-and-seek with a dash of festive mayhem thrown in, all in the name of making sure the kids stay on their best behaviour in the run-up to Christmas.

Great idea right?

Well.

If you’re a parent of young children and you haven’t yet been swept into the world of Elf on the Shelf, my advice, don’t start. Take it from me, it might seem like a magical, charming tradition for the first year (maybe even the second), but by year eight, you’ll be praying for some freak shredder accident to end your suffering.

At first, it's all fun and games. You’ve got your elf doing cute little things, hiding in the Christmas tree, maybe even “writing” notes in glittery pens. The kids love it, you feel like the parent of the year, and you're riding high on that festive magic.

But then, after a couple of years, something shifts. Suddenly, you’re trying to come up with new, fresh ideas for the elf to do Every. Single. Night…. and it’s not so fun anymore. By year three, you’re wondering if just moving the elf around to a different location each night will suffice. By year four, you’re having a relapse, setting up elaborate scenarios, convincing yourself that this year will be different. By year five, you’ve run out of ideas and are considering just sticking the elf on the shelf and calling it a day.

Then, after about eight years of this, you’ll be standing in the middle of your living room, looking at those little elves and wondering how on earth they haven’t ended up in the shredder already. Because let’s be honest, at this point, you’re out of clever ideas and even the thought of coming up with another quirky elf pose makes you question your very existence.

It’s a slippery slope. What starts as a bit of innocent fun soon becomes an obligation, and suddenly you’re up at midnight, frantically searching Pinterest for the next big idea, while secretly wishing the elves would just pack their bags and leave. So, if you’re still in those early years, enjoy the magic while it lasts. But remember, once you’re knee-deep in elf escapades for the tenth year, you’ll be begging for a shredder. Trust me. I’m right there, right now.

Eric arrived at our house in 2015 and immediately got busy mischief making. He hung upside down from the lights, dove headfirst into the marshmallow tub, and swung from a string of Christmas cards. He even stole school photos of Katelyn, drawing devil horns, a red curly moustache, and a goatee on one, with the word “naughty” written on it, while the other got a halo and the label “or nice.” Eric made himself at home in the dolls' house for a tea party, hid in my car one day, and sneakily travelled to my office, where he set up a series of selfies; on my computer, the work phone, and using my calculator. He squeezed inside a balloon, cut a hole in the Rice Krispies package and stuck his head through it, took a bath in a bowl of popcorn, and made snow angels on the window. The mischief was endless.

Esmerelda joined Eric the following year, and from that moment on, it was double the trouble. From 2016 to 2020, they came up with countless new escapades. They pilfered the cinnamon swirls for a midnight feast, napped together in an old shoebox, and hid in the Christmas tree. But as the years went on and our creativity dwindled, they started repeating their antics - resorting to familiar mischief when fresh ideas became harder to come by.

In 2021, Flashy Thomas McSleighBells made his grand entrance. I found him at the newsagents, and he insisted on coming home to join the mischief. Just like that, the terrible twosome became a terrible threesome, with Flashy proving to be the perfect sidekick. By now, Katelyn was 11 and had uncovered the secret, finding Eric and Esmerelda stashed in a biscuit tin on top of the kitchen cupboard in January, long after they should have been back at the North Pole with Santa. Over the next three years, their troublemaking reached new heights. They sat under pint glasses, "hiding from farts… ew," dove headfirst into the sweet jar, sat in bowls of Rice Krispies, hung toilet paper all around the house, and rigged zip lines down the stairs, creating chaos every night.

But in early 2024, Flashy suffered an almost fatal incident. Refusing to return to the North Pole with Eric and Esmerelda, he stayed hidden in Thomas’s bedroom, but not so well hidden it turns out, because he was sniffed out by an even worse mischief maker, Steve. Our lunatic cocker spaniel puppy. Luckily I caught Steve in the act and saved Flashy from a terrible fate, but not before Steve had destuffed him, chewed the tinkly bell off his hat, and ripped his belt clean off.

Since then, Flashy has languished in my jewellery box, tucked away like a forgotten relic of festive battles past - sad, disfigured, and missing his once-jingly bell. But now, it’s the 30th of November, and Thomas fully expects Flashy, Eric, and Esmerelda to be hanging out in the Christmas tree tomorrow morning.

Here’s the thing: I know he knows Santa isn’t real. He knows I know he knows. And at 11, he’s definitely too old to believe in magical elves reporting back to the Big Man about his behaviour.

Or so I thought.

Because right before I tucked him into bed tonight, you know what he said?

“Yay, Mummy! Eric, Esmerelda, and Flashy Thomas McSleighBells will be here tomorrow!”

Of course they will.

And in a moment of what I can only describe as either sheer brilliance or utter stupidity, I recently immortalised those very elves in the dedication of our newly published book, Is Aunt Moll from the North Pole? - a Christmas tale about three children on a mission to uncover whether their quirky aunt might just be one of Santa’s elves.

“To Katelyn Jane and Thomas, Eric, Esmerelda, and of course, Flashy Thomas McSleighbells,” it reads. Maybe it’s a testament to how much these mischievous little troublemakers have become part of our Christmas story, or perhaps just a lapse in judgment. Either way, their antics have earned a permanent place in our family’s festive traditions.

And so, here I am in the early hours of December 1st, painstakingly restuffing Flashy, sewing on a shiny new bell, and patching up his battle scars. His little belt, now reconstructed, is back in place, ready for another season of festive antics.

If you’re enchanted by Christmas elves and looking for a new holiday tradition to share with your little ones, may I gently steer you toward one that doesn’t require nightly mischief management for the next 10 years. Perhaps you might like curling up together and reading a story instead. One about a Christmas elf and three super-sleuth children on a magical adventure. Trust me, your future self will thank you.

Bye for now,