As it’s the season for giving presents and generally worshipping the Gods of consumerism, we have indulged with the masses. This year, following the success of the halloween party, we decided to host a Christmas party. I don’t know why I do this to myself: I stress for a week beforehand over food; the state of the house; the number and placement of decorations; and all manner of things. Then I stress for a week after over whether people actually had a good time or if they just said that to be polite; if I overdid it; and what am I going to do with the 6kgs of leftover crisps in a flavour that no one in the house eats.
On top of all the normal party stressors (well, normal to me) we also had to provide appropriate presents, in appropriately selected wrappings, for the other fae that were attending. To this end, I limited the guests to what we affectionately refer to as the ‘neuro-spicy’s’: my daughter and her three closest friends, all of which have been (or are in the process of becoming) diagnosed with a neurodivergent condition. It makes for an interesting time, but honestly, at this point, normal children scare me and I have no idea how to relate to them. I digress. So, the presents were selected, and my fae insisted on helping to wrap them. To her credit, she did a passable job of choosing paper and ribbons. She also wanted to make sure that, regardless of cost, size or shape, they all had two to open, and that she could identify what they were. Kid logic, I guess. Or so I thought.
As soon as they arrived – and I mean they had not got completely through the door nor taken off their coats – she was calling them to open their presents. She also informed them what was in them. Thankfully it was so chaotic that no one heard, and I was able to pull her aside and explain that the whole point of wrapping it was so the contents were a surprise; and maybe they would want to wait until Christmas Day to open them. She stared at me blankly, shook her head in a way that informed me that I was very stupid, and marched back into the room and started doling out packages, informing people “I’m not supposed to tell you this is a toy” or whatever.
Fortunately, the kids were paying more attention to ripping open the paper than to listening; the noise drowned her out so the parents didn’t hear; and within 5 minutes everything was open anyway.
Today is one of her last sessions with her childminder. I brought her present along, and once again, my fae insisted on knowing ‘what’s in the box’. Trying to hedge my bets – having learnt from the party – I tried not to tell her. At which point, she started undoing the ribbon. So, in despair, I reluctantly answered with a generic ‘It’s toiletries’. She did the confused puppy head tilt and sniffed it when I tried to explain further. She then decided it was perfume (it’s not, but hey, let’s go with that!)
So, she hopped out of the car and presented the bag to her childminder announcing ‘happy birthday!’ brightly (I corrected her to ‘Christmas’ and was ignored) And she handed over the parcel, saying ‘it’s perfume’. Now, our fae is still not the clearest speaker in the world, and what came out sounded more like ‘for you’ – for which she was thanked.
“No! It PERFUME” she snapped.
“No, fae, it’s a surprise,” I try again to explain. This time I get the teenage-like “huff and eye roll”. Before she can try again, the childminder cottons on to what she is trying to do, and ushers her inside while smiling and thanking her, before telling me it’s fine as she didn’t understand anyway.
So, I have learnt two things before the big day. 1. Don’t actually tell her what’s in the presents. And 2. Even if she does find out it doesn’t matter, no one will be able to figure out what she says anyway.
Season’s greetings, everyone!
Raising the Modern Fae 