This year, for the first time since she was a baby, we attempted to have Christmas at a relative’s house. This was not a decision we took lightly, or with any sense of ease. In fact, had my father not died in the summer, we would not have done it at all. But leaving my mother alone for the first season of celebration after his passing seemed unreasonably cruel. So, with that in mind, we loaded the car with us, the things we would need (a small back pack each), presents (several large bags of those) and everything we felt our fae would need to survive 4 days and keep any emotional regulation (a sports bag, inflatable bed, three suitcase size bags, 2 cuddly dogs and a boot full of ‘contingency’ blankets and sensory toys)
There was a time when we could go abroad for a week with just carry-on luggage. I miss those times.
To her credit, she was an angel on the drive down: 4 hours in a car is enough to test the patience of most children, but she cheerfully babbled her way through several renditions of Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer and Jingle Bells (to which she only knew the chorus) until she finally fell asleep.
She was happy enough to arrive, too. In fact, everything might have been fine, except she could not sleep. Seriously. For three days, she didn’t start to drift until midnight, only to be wide awake by 3. She is fundamentally incapable of being on her own if awake, and so would make sure I had to be with her, and while she can survive on such cat naps, I can not. Fortunately, I can survive on coffee, and alcohol. And both are in copious supply at this time of year.
We were – just about – keeping our head above water until the night of Christmas Day, where after spending the day in a house with 8 people – 2 of them her noisy but adored cousins – she was ready to sleep. This time, just as she started to drift, the noise from said cousins and their parents startled her awake. I don’t often (any more) consider fratricide, but thoughts in that moment did cross my mind. It did amuse me that my daughter’s first thought was to jump out of bed and demand to be allowed to march downstairs and shout at them.
It took another hour and a half to settle her from her near-hysterical state and get her to sleep. By which point the offending parties had left and I had no outlet for my ire. It will keep, he has a 15 year old I can give my alcohol too next time we have a get together. Apparently, she is an aggressive drunk.
All-in-all, our fae was out of spoons and I was out of coffee, so we came home a day early. Despite demanding to return throughout the preceding day, she cried for the first two hours of the journey. I have now adopted the audio book of “Go the F**k to Sleep” (read by Samuel L Jackson) as the road trip soundtrack.
So we are home. She has had a second Christmas made from the presents that we left behind because there was no room in the car. We washed her hair in a bath of lurid yellow water made from a bath bomb that was in the shape of a Princess crown, and she is feeling herself again. I know this because when asked how many crisps she had spilt on the couch she glanced briefly before proudly announcing ‘16’ and then demanding we go to soft play. Which is where we are now.
So, Joyful Crimbletide, and season’s greetings to all, and remember this too will pass. It won’t be too long before the little darlings are back on routine and we can all work on losing the stone of weight we drank whilst trying to survive this week (no? Just me then).
Raising the Modern Fae 