Keeping Up Was Never the Point

The house was still dark when we woke on Christmas Eve, snow pressed hard against the windowpanes from the storm overnight. A biting chill snaked along the floor, prickling my bare feet as I crossed the kitchen to turn on the fireplace, the first warmth pushing back.

Dan pulled on his coat and headed out early for the fish market, hoping to be near the front of the line, Bellini’s already being poured for those waiting to buy what they’d need for the Feast of the Seven Fishes. When the door closed behind him, It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year filled the kitchen. I creamed eggs and butter, then moved on to bake our snowman cupcakes, our daughters crowding close, arms reaching for the beaters, batter smudged along the counter edges.

This was how we did Christmas.
The morning was underway.

When our daughters were three and four, we added Elf on the Shelf.

She arrived after Thanksgiving and stayed through Christmas Eve. Each morning, they darted down the stairs to find her, scanning shelves and countertops before breakfast.

The girls believed in it. They named her Joy, whispered near her as if sound alone could break the spell, knowing that touching her meant the magic would disappear.

Some days, Joy sat tucked into my coffee mug. That made them giggle. My first cup mattered, half-hot, taken in quick sips.

Once, they found her riding in a Barbie car, as if she’d taken a joyride while they slept.

It didn’t feel heavy at first.

Then came the scrolling, other people’s elves filling my feed.

That’s when keeping score started.

Images of elves zip-tying shoes together. Living rooms left full of marshmallows after elaborate “snowball fights.” Images posted daily. Captions beneath them. Planning. Setup. Cleanup. A photo staged. Posted.

And it waited for me the next morning, on my phone, already complete before our day had begun.

Between the lingering hum of work and the rhythm of home, the elf became one more thing to carry.

Night after night, dishes clattered into the sink as steam bloomed over the bathroom mirror. Then story time.

I climbed the ladder to the top bunk first, careful not to shake the frame, sliding in beside Madeleine with the book propped between us. My fingers traced slow circles along her back until her voice softened and the pages blurred.

Then I stepped down and slid into the lower bed, pulling the blanket up around her sister’s shoulders, rubbing her head the way she liked, reading until her breathing evened out.
Their bodies grew heavy against mine. The last page always turned.

Morning arrived fast.

“Socks and shoes, socks and shoes.”

The chant bounced down the hallway. Hopping on cold tile. A zipper half-stuck. Keys missing from the dish.

“I can’t find my other mitten.”

We were late.

Mornings like this were loud, but they were ours.

Other mornings began before sunrise; I slipped out into the cold alone.

I worked in Boston. The daily commute took three-and-a-half hours, grinding time down before the day began. Lunch unfolded at my desk, a sandwich in one hand, the other clicking through spreadsheets, mustard sharp in the air. The clock stayed in view.

I ate fast so I could leave sooner. Leaving early mattered. Evenings were brief.

I was already running thin, which is why other people’s pace and how well they staged it became a measure I was failing.

One morning, someone brushed against Joy.

One girl dissolved into sobs. The other kept apologizing, breathless. She pulled away when I tried to hug her.

We scrambled.

Texts to friends. The search for answers, fumbling with my phone.

That night, a grocery store run for a special spice blend. We set it beside Joy and stepped back, as if giving the magic room to return.

Hands held as we danced around her, singing a Christmas carol.

Afterward, they watched, holding their breath.
I held mine too.

Before bed, one girl nestled a yellow sticky note near Joy.

The next morning, Joy dangled from the chandelier.

They exhaled, then ran off to play.

The note read:

I touched you by accident 😢
but I still love you
because my mom helped me put you back alive 🙂
love ❤️
madeleine

Across the middle of the note, in a different hand:

no worries

It became clear how perfect our effort was.

Keeping score stopped there.