At the gym my fae child attends for sports club, they keep a care plan on her (a bit like an abbreviated EHCP). It follows her into and out of every lesson. On Wednesdays, she has back-to-back classes in different areas, so to save time and stress, I collect her from one class and take the plan up to the next. It’s a system we’ve used for over a year, and it works because the staff are usually already in situ—and since I wrote the plan, obviously I’m allowed to see it.
Last night, the care plan was not on the clipboard at the end of the first class. It wasn’t on any clipboard. It wasn’t in the folder. It was lost—presumed missing.
Now, I should point out that for most children, the lack of a piece of paper they never see—apart from the odd occasion a parent waves it at someone—probably wouldn’t stop them from attending their favourite activity. In this case: yoga.
That being said, the reason my daughter has that piece of paper is the same reason that, when it went missing, she refused to leave the tennis courts until it was found. I mean a full-on sit-down protest in the middle of the court. She didn’t scream. She didn’t tantrum. But she was not going anywhere.
When I pointed out we were going to be late, she blithely told me that the member of staff now running around like a headless chicken was in charge of yoga sign-in that night—so it’s not like the class was going to start on time anyway.
When I tried to get her to leave, she asked if I had the paper yet. I had to admit I didn’t, and she went back to being a statue.
At this point, there were about ten 3–5-year-olds circling her on mini scooters like sharks around prey. She was in the middle of the court, and they were supposed to be starting their session. Their parents couldn’t leave because the children couldn’t be signed in. The staff were tearing the clipboards apart. I couldn’t leave because my daughter had turned into a gnome, and the kids couldn’t scooter because the gnome was in the middle of the court.
After ten minutes of this carry-on sketch, I managed to get her into the corridor—where she promptly turned into a sloth and started climbing the structurally integral support strut in the middle of the hallway.
I asked her why, and she said, “Because I’m moving to higher ground to hunt for the paper.”
…Makes about as much sense as anything else at the moment.
I coaxed the mighty hunter down after another five minutes and dragged her toward the yoga studio. I was told we had to take the secret way. I replied that going past the changing rooms wasn’t that secret and was definitely much longer. I was ignored.
We arrived 15 minutes late.
There was another group of put-out parents because the session was delayed, they were now late to their own classes, and the staff member responsible for sign-in hadn’t organised the clipboard or paperwork. She was, it turned out, looking for something.
So my daughter has dutifully reminded them all that yes, she does need that piece of paper, and yes, if they go off routine, she is absolutely capable—and very willing—to throw their entire evening into chaos without ever once raising her voice or looking like she did anything.
I will just point out that the document is covered in confidential information and does need to be found.
Strangely, it had been handed in to reception—where no one thought to check. So it was returned within half an hour.
I believe they are now reassessing this clipboard system.
Which is a shame, really, because it’s the best entertainment I’ve had all holiday.
Raising the Modern Fae 