In the grand scheme of things, I haven’t been a parent that long. Although there are days when it seems that these screaming howler monkeys have been tearing my house apart and eating my good stash of chocolate for an eternity, they’ve really only been torturing me for about six and a half years at the most.

I accept that I’m still kind of a rookie.

As such, I know that there are people out there who are much better at the parenting thing than I am. I count among these folks their teachers, their friends’ parents, the cashier at the grocery store who supports their quest for a candy bar and pretty much anyone on Pinterest who claims to have never yelled at their kids or dragged a screaming kid out of Target.

What I did not expect at this stage of the game was to be outparented by a freakin’ stuffed elf.

Our “Elf on the Shelf” is a little stuffed elf with a skinny red body, an impish grin, and blue eyes that freakily follow you around the room like those paintings in Scooby Doo cartoons. He has been lovingly named Ignatius Thistlewhite or Iggy for short.

**Tangent** I’ll give $5 to anyone who knows who the original Ignatius Thistlewhite is. Just kidding. I don’t have $5 to give anyone. It’s less than a month before Christmas! But still, the first to post in the comments that they know who Ignatius Thistlewhite is will gain my undying respect. **Tangent Over**

For those of you unfamiliar with the legend of the Elf on the Shelf, the Cliff Notes version is thus – this little elf comes to your house around Thanksgiving, hangs out all day watching your kids, reports their behavior back to Santa and returns the next day.

And my kids pay attention to him infinitely more than they have ever paid attention to me.

“Iggy doesn’t want me to whine about doing homework? OK, I’ll do it with a smile on my face and ask him to tell Santa how much I love doing homework.”

“Iggy wants me to clean my room? Mom, come help me make my bed so Iggy can tell Santa what a good job I did.”

“Iggy wants me to eat corn, which until this point I’ve treated as the equivalent of a bowl full of hemlock? Bring on the Green Giant and his little Nibblets of goodness.”

Granted, Iggy doesn’t yell. Or threaten. Or have steam coming out of his ears because there is underwear on the floor of the living room every night. (Really? Really???)

There are perks that I get that the elf doesn’t. If one touches Iggy, he loses his magic. No magic means no nightly reports to the fat guy in the red suit who makes all the toys. Not so with me. I get touched all day long.

By my girl who isn’t happy unless she has physically attached herself to another person.

By my youngest who still hasn’t figured out that sticking a sharp elbow in my soft belly turns Mama into screaming howler monkey.

By my oldest who is turning so gawky and lanky that snuggling him is like holding a bag of legs.

So, Iggy’s a better parent than I am. But I get the snuggles. All in all, he may be better at getting them to behave, but I still get the best of them.

Now if he could only get them to pick their underwear up off my living room floor!