I love Christmas. I genuinely do. Every year, as December rolls around, I get this bubbly surge of anticipation. You won’t hear me groaning about the grossly premature carols playing in shopping centres mid October, nor about the sparkling lights, the Santa inflatables, the overzealous cocktails and the Netflix schmaltz. Truly, I’m here for it all.
But I also have to be honest. Since becoming a mum, my festive vibe has dimmed each year, little by little. Now the inner Christmas cheerleader in me is battling a new foe: the silent Grinch that appears under the weight of an insurmountable mental load. Just like all the worn down women before me.
And while having kids can make the season more jolly in certain ways (with all the reliving tiny moments in childish wonder and all), the endless responsibility of orchestrating festivities, combined with the expectation to do it with Pinterest-worthy charm, is starting to make my eye twitch.
Let’s start with the presents. I try to be a mindful gift-giver, steering away from landfill-bound toys and leaning into experiences or pre-loved goods. Do you know what’s not joyful, though? Searching Facebook Marketplace at 11 pm, messaging strangers about whether a box of Lego is still available, and then embarking on a special mission to retrieve it from someone’s porch.
Last week I met with a friend of mine who’s boycotted gift giving altogether. It stresses her, it clutters her home up, and she’s over the waste. I can see her point. Kids don’t need the crap and I could do without the carpal-tunnel inducing wrapping saga.
And then there’s the feast. Now, I genuinely love cooking. But Christmas cooking? It’s a logistical marathon. Case in point: last week, I spent an entire workday traipsing around Sydney with a giant paella pan. I even brought it along to my team Christmas party which my colleagues will attest to.
Why? Because I live in a regional area where giant paella pans are apparently classified as rare mythical objects, and I figured a work trip to the city was the perfect chance to grab one. Between meetings, I dodged pedestrians while lugging a pan the size of a hula hoop. Was this a particularly proud moment? No. Did I get the paella pan? Yes. Am I ridiculous? Also yes.
But at least I can reason with myself that cooking for Christmas Day comes with the reward of food and priceless family memories. You know what doesn’t? The Elf on the Shelf.
This, my friends, is the hill I will die on. The Elf on the Shelf is an utterly ridiculous invention that has somehow convinced an entire generation of parents to participate in its nightmarish antics. And no, it’s not enough to just move it around anymore. You need creativity. You need strategy. You need to wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat because the elf is still sitting in the same position as yesterday, staring into the void.
Even worse, it’s turned into this silent competition among parents. Mums on Instagram are posting elaborate elf dioramas where the elf has “gone fishing” in the sink or recreated an iconic scene from The Polar Express. Meanwhile, I’m over here haphazardly shoving the elf into the blinds and praying my kids don’t notice the lack of imagination.
Let’s be real: no child is asking for this. I don’t think my kids even like the elf. It’s mildly terrifying. So why do we do it? Because someone—a cruel, twisted genius—convinced us to do a little bit more at a time that we’re all burnt out and walking around like zombies.
And this is where the Christmas mental load really takes its toll. It’s not the individual tasks—wrapping presents, cooking paella, or even begrudgingly repositioning an elf. It’s the accumulation. The sheer number of invisible, thankless things that pile up, demanding attention, creativity, and a level of energy I simply don’t have in December.
So, this year I’m making some changes. I’m outsourcing dessert and if anyone asks me why my gift wrapping looks like it was done by a drunk octopus, I’ll simply smile and say, “the elf did it”. As for next year? Well, by then my elfy mate will be holidaying in Bermuda. Sorry kids.