Dec. 16. By Jon Show. When the kids were young, Christmas was the most exciting time of the year, but I’m tired of the insane amount of effort it takes to carry on all the traditions.

We still like to pick out the tree and decorate it, but you can tell the kids are doing it begrudgingly. We still like watching them open presents, but you don’t see the same excitement in the eyes of teenagers.

We still have the spirit of the season but with 18 family Christmases under our belts, we’ve grown a little weary of the whole rigmarole, so we’ve pared things back, as families tend to do.

I no longer climb a 30-foot ladder to light the house like Clark Griswold. I quit cutting pizza slices into evergreens the night we decorate the tree. I no longer stay up late on Christmas Eve penning fake letters from Santa.

This year we have our sights set squarely on the elves. Those stupid, *** elves.

Pest in the Nest

If you’re unfamiliar with the Elf on the Shelf it’s probably because you’re older and when you had kids you believed that an all-knowing, gift-rewarding old man was enough to keep the kids in line during the holidays.

Well, not anymore. Your daughters have called in assistance.

The elf shows up in December to watch the kids and then flies back to the North Pole each night with reports for Santa, who turns 1,744 this year, and is apparently outsourcing his work.

The Mother of Dragons purchased our first $30 elf, Bits (they all have stupid names because they’re named by three-year-olds), when Future Man was a toddler.

Then, like every December earlier in her career, she left town for work most of the next three weeks.

I was left to move the elf every night after I worked all day, picked our kid up from daycare, bathed him, fed him, read him books, begged him to go to sleep and then cleaned up our nightly mess.

After the Blonde Bomber was born, Future Man claimed sole ownership of his elf so we had to add a $30 girl elf, Pixie (better because she’s a girl), my wife left town, and I got to do everything twice.

Here’s the rub: I often forget or avoid doing things that I don’t consider imperative. I don’t do it on purpose, my brain just presses the erase button.

The year we added the second elf my wife returned from a work trip and asked the children about all the exciting places that Bits and Pixie had turned up while she was gone.

But the elves were on the same curtain rod where she left them, and Future Man said the elves hadn’t flown home because he and his sister were being bad, which is what I told them each morning when I’d forgotten to move the elves. For five straight days.

Judge me all you want. I’m sure they behaved poorly at some point during each day. No one’s perfect.

Also it was a solution to a problem that was not going to be resolved conventionally. There was no chance I was going to remember to move those things every night.

Luckily for the kids, the following year the Mother of Dragons’ travel schedule eased and she took sole responsibility for the elves. The experience improved sharply over the ensuing decade.

Without having to serve as primary elf caregiver, I even participated, like the year I edited a video that showed the elves disappearing in the middle of the night.

Louse in the House

The Blonde Bomber was in seventh grade last year and told the Mother of Dragons how excited she was that the elves were coming back once we got our tree.

My wife was exasperated that we (she) still had to do the elves. I told her to call the girl’s bluff. No chance she still believed in them and all it was doing was creating more work for us.

She sheepishly declined and retreated to Amazon to buy a $50 kit that came with fresh ideas on how to stage our $60 worth of elves.

A couple weeks later she had a one-night work trip and before she left she instructed me to follow the script in the elf kit, but I wasn’t having it. I’m not a very good subordinate.

So after the kids went to bed, I created toilet seats out of glass mugs, filled them with chocolate milk and mini marshmallows, and plopped the elves on top.

Next to the scene I penned a poem in my own very recognizable handwriting about the elves having upset tummies.

The Blonde Bomber awoke the next morning, saw the elves, shot me some side eye and said nothing. Future Man smiled an all-knowing smile. I was content. I knew the girl was faking it.

Blight in the Night

Earlier this fall the Mother of Dragons started hemming and hawing about the elves. She was tired of creating elaborate elfscapes and I wasn’t going to step in to pinch hit.

She finally broke down and asked the Blonde Bomber if she still believed in the elves and she admitted she hadn’t believed in them for years. She was just playing along.

So the Mother of Dragons is elated that she won’t have to stage the elves this year. After all, we’re a house of non-believers now.

Well, not all of us. I believe in three things.

One, I believe those stupid elves will be fished out of the attic after we get our tree because the Blonde Bomber is like living with a 13-year-old Martha Stewart when it comes to holidays.

Two, I believe a $50 elf kit will arrive from Amazon days later because the only person who has admirably tried and failed to make more annual holiday traditions stick is my poor wife.

And three, I believe I might join in this year. Now that the kids are older it might be fun.

I’ve already bookmarked inappropriate elf ideas, just in case.

Story update: This column first ran in the December print issue. I was correct on number one and two and still undecided on number three.