So, recently I ended up in a conversation with my fae child that had more of an effect on her than I expected. Whilst running around with a calculator (it was a Christmas present) she decided that it was a phone, on which she had entered a phone number.
As an offhand comment (silly me) I mentioned that it couldn’t be, as there were only 8 numbers on the screen. Phone numbers had at least 10. She blinked at me, looked at the calculator and back to me and said ‘but there isn’t an 8’.
Crap. Well, this isn’t going away, as in her mind I have impugned her honour and dignity when it comes to all things numerical. I tried again to explain – despite the fact that this was meant as an off hand joke – that a. I had made an (in hindsight) poor joke and b. I was talking about the number of digits on the screen, not the figure 8. More blinking. This time accompanied by a high pitched sound effect I more often associate with cartoons. (See Stop this Sketch). She clears the screen and inputs another stream of digits and shows it to me
“See, no 8.” She announces defiantly. This time there are 7 digits, I debate trying to explain again that phone numbers have 10 but feel I might be wasting my time.
“Don’t worry, we have fallen down a rabbit hole of misunderstandings here, it’s not important. If you want that as a phone number, you can have it as a phone number” I say, trying to be conciliatory. Her eyes go wide.
“RABBIT HOLE?! What rabbit hole we’re not in a rabbit hole we’re in a house!”
Oh. Dear. God.
She fixates on the idea that I think we are in a rabbit hole and goes off looking for rabbits while we try to make her finish dinner; my husband oscillates between amusement and cursing my name as we corral her back to the table to finish eating. The meal takes the best part of an hour and is completed whilst she insists on knowing where the rabbit hole fits into things and will not be placated with the idea of being read “Alice in Wonderland” as a bedtime story.
Today, she found a business card and asked what was on the bottom of it.
“It’s a phone number,” I say distractedly whilst wrestling her into socks and shoes. She looks up at me confused.
“No it’s not, there’s an 8 in it”.
I give up.
Raising the Modern Fae 