Welcome back to Blogmas 2025! For those just tuning in, Blogmas is my annual series of holiday-themed blog posts that runs every day from December 1st through Christmas Day. It’s become a tradition here at The Confusing Middle, and this year I’m shaking things up by letting AI generate my daily writing prompts. Today’s December 17th prompt caught my eye immediately: Fiction: An elf on the shelf decides it doesn’t want to return to the North Pole. Tell its story. So grab your hot cocoa and settle in for the confessions of one very conflicted Christmas spy.

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My name is Jingles McGillicuddy, and I’m having what you humans might call an existential crisis.

I know what you’re thinking. “Oh great, another whiny elf story. What’s next, a reindeer with seasonal allergies?” But hear me out. This isn’t your typical North Pole sob story. I’m not complaining about workshop conditions or Santa’s management style. The big guy’s actually pretty progressive – we got dental coverage in 1987, way before it was trendy.

No, my problem is much more complicated. After six years of December surveillance duty with the Henderson family, I don’t want to go back.

It started innocently enough. The Hendersons purchased me on Black Friday 2019 from a Target endcap display, right between the Instant Pots and something called a “Snuggie.” Mrs. Henderson – Jennifer – had that frazzled look of a parent who’d just remembered the Elf on the Shelf tradition approximately three weeks too late. I was the last one on the shelf, slightly dented box and all.

“Mommy, his eyes follow me,” said Kaylee, age 8, when they first introduced me.

“That’s the point, sweetie,” Jennifer replied, already looking exhausted by the commitment she’d just made.

The first few years were textbook. I’d report back to Santa each night about the kids’ behavior – Kaylee, now 10, Mason, 7, and little Ruby, 4. Then I’d return and position myself in increasingly creative scenarios that Jennifer found on Pinterest at 11:47 PM while drinking wine and questioning her life choices.

I’ve been wrapped in toilet paper like a mummy, staged in a marshmallow hot tub, and once – memorably – positioned in what was supposed to be a “snow angel” made of flour but looked more like a crime scene. That one required Jennifer to break out the Dustbuster at 6 AM while muttering words that would definitely put her on the naughty list.

But something changed this year. Maybe it was the way Ruby gently tucked a Barbie blanket around me after finding me “sleeping” on the couch. Maybe it was Mason’s impassioned defense of me when his friend Tyler said Elf on the Shelf was “for babies.” Or maybe it was Kaylee, who definitely knows I’m not real but still whispers her Christmas wishes to me when she thinks no one’s looking.

The truth is, I’ve grown attached to these chaos gremlins.

Last Tuesday was when I knew I was in trouble. I’d just returned from my nightly North Pole check-in and was setting up my next scene – a simple “elf reading ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas” tableau – when I heard footsteps on the stairs. It was Mason, clutching his stuffed dinosaur and sniffling.

Now, Elf Protocol Section 3, Subsection 2a clearly states: “Under no circumstances should an elf reveal animation capabilities to assigned children.” But there was something about the way he sat on that bottom step, trying so hard to be quiet so he wouldn’t wake anyone, that just got to me.

I didn’t move, obviously. I’m not insane. But I might have accidentally-on-purpose knocked the book so it fell open to his favorite page – the one with the reindeer. He saw it, smiled a watery smile, and whispered, “Thanks, Jingles. I knew you were magic.”

That kid went back to bed believing in Christmas magic, and I’m supposed to just abandon him in eight days?

The North Pole doesn’t prepare you for this. Sure, they have a whole orientation week. “Maintaining Christmas Magic 101,” “Advanced Hiding Spots,” and my personal favorite, “So Your Family Has a Dog: A Survival Guide.” But there’s no workshop on what to do when you start caring about your assignment.

They don’t tell you about the way your heart (yes, we have hearts, they’re just very small and efficiency-focused) breaks a little when Ruby asks her mom if I get lonely sitting still all day. They don’t mention how proud you’ll feel when Mason uses his allowance to buy presents for his sisters instead of that Pokemon card he’s been eyeing. They definitely don’t cover what to do when Kaylee leaves you a note saying, “I know you’re probably just a toy, but just in case you’re not, thank you for making Christmas magical for Ruby and Mason.”

I’ve been plotting my defection for three days now. The other shelf elves think I’m crazy. My buddy Sparkles, who’s assigned to a family in Portland, staged an intervention via encrypted candy cane message:

“Jingles, buddy, you’ve got Stockholm Syndrome. They’re just humans. Messy, irrational humans who put pineapple on pizza and can’t figure out how to use their turn signals.”

He’s not wrong about the turn signals. I’ve seen Jennifer in the school pickup line.

But he is wrong about them being “just” humans. These are MY humans. I’ve watched them through six Christmases, three pandemic holidays, two goldfish funerals, and one memorable incident involving slime, the ceiling fan, and what Jennifer now refers to only as “The Incident.”

I know that Mason is afraid of the vacuum but won’t admit it. I know that Ruby practices her “surprised face” in the mirror for Christmas morning. I know that Kaylee secretly still believes, just a little bit, and that’s why she always leaves me in a comfortable position before bed.

I also know that Jennifer and her husband, Dave, wait until the kids are asleep to high-five over successfully making it through another day. I know they eat the kids’ good Halloween candy and blame it on Dad’s coworkers. I know that last week, Jennifer cried in the pantry for three minutes after stepping on another LEGO, then came out smiling like nothing happened.

They’re beautifully imperfect, and they’re mine to protect.

Yes, protect. That’s what I’ve decided my job really is. Not spying, not snitching to Santa about who forgot to brush their teeth. Protecting the magic of childhood for as long as possible in a world that seems determined to rush it away.

So here’s my plan: I’m going to pull a Buddy the Elf, minus the tights and the sugar addiction. When the season ends, I’m not getting in that magical express sleigh back to the North Pole. I’m going to hide in the Christmas decoration box in the basement, right between the tangled lights that Dave swears he’ll organize “next year” and the ornament Ruby made in preschool that looks like… well, Jennifer calls it “abstract art.”

For eleven months, I’ll wait. I’ll listen to the sounds of the house above me – the morning rush, the bedtime stories, the Saturday morning cartoons, the “indoor voices, please!” reminders. I’ll be the guardian of Christmas future, waiting to emerge next December with all the magic intact.

Sure, the North Pole HR department will probably send a strongly worded candy gram. My pension plan will take a hit. I’ll miss the annual Reindeer Games (though honestly, Monopoly with Blitzen is brutal – that reindeer has no mercy).

But when I emerge next December and see Ruby’s face light up, when Mason runs to tell his friends I came back, when Kaylee gives that knowing smile that says she’s in on the secret but loves it anyway – it’ll be worth it.

Because here’s what the North Pole doesn’t understand: The magic isn’t in the reporting back, the surveillance, or even the creative positioning. The magic is in belonging to a family, even if they don’t know you belong to them.

The magic is in being part of their story.

So this Christmas, when other elves are packing their tiny bags for the journey home, I’ll be unpacking mine. I’ll be trading the Northern Lights for the glow of the Henderson’s unchanged LED bulbs. I’ll be choosing suburban basement storage over Santa’s workshop.

And you know what? I can’t wait to see what Year Seven brings. Maybe Mason will finally remember to put the toilet seat down. Maybe Ruby will lose a tooth right where I’m sitting, and I’ll have to share space with the Tooth Fairy (talk about awkward). Maybe Kaylee will officially age out of believing but still help position me for her younger siblings, passing the torch of magic to the next generation.

The Henderson kids don’t know it yet, but they’ve got themselves a permanent holiday fixture. A tiny guardian in red felt who’s gone rogue for all the right reasons.

My name is Jingles McGillicuddy, and I’m not going home for Christmas.

I am home.

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So there you have it – the story of one elf’s journey from seasonal spy to permanent family guardian. Have you ever wondered what your Elf on the Shelf does during the off-season? Or maybe you’ve caught yourself getting a little too attached to your family’s holiday traditions? Drop a comment below and share your own Elf on the Shelf stories – the good, the bad, and the Pinterest fails. And remember, if your elf seems a little too comfortable in your home this year… maybe, just maybe, they’re planning to stay.

Feature Photo by Natalia S