Today’s state

Guest post from the Fae father (yes I edited it because I thought it made us sound far to depressed)

Return of the Routine: A Household Held Together by Calendars, Charts, and Cuddles

With the Fae’s triumphant return to school (cue Hallelujah chorus), we once again usher in that glorious illusion known as “normal routine”—which seemed like an excellent excuse to reflect on the various systems now governing our household like benevolent, colour-coded overlords.

Morning: Also Known as ‘The Time of Chaos’

The day begins far too early, usually with a small fae climbing into mummy’s bed, demanding “morning cuddles” like some kind of enchanted woodland creature powered entirely by love and chaos. Sleep, she has decided, is a lifestyle choice we are free to reject – in fact she has rejected it for us.

At approximately 7:45 a.m., she is transferred to her father, like a very energetic baton, so that mum can perform wild luxuries such as showering without an audience—something people without children tragically take for granted.

From there, Dad takes the reins: breakfast, tooth-brushing, dressing, and hair wrangling (involving both brushing and plaiting, which is basically a competitive sport at this point). All this must be completed before 8:30, ideally without anyone crying. Including him.

Then it’s off to school via the scenic route, because the main road is always hosting roadworks. It’s a kind of eternal pilgrimage to the gods of Temporary Traffic Lights.

Daytime: The School (a.k.a. Sanctuary)

Thankfully, school is magical. They’ve even convinced her to eat lunch. We don’t question how—possibly dark magic, possibly bribery. She’s theirs until 3 p.m., at which point she’s collected and transported either to her grandparents (who are saints) or the gym (which has become her second home and part-time fiefdom).

She returns home around 6 p.m., slightly feral but intact.

Evening: The Feeding Ritual

Dinner time used to be… a lot. Asking “What would you like for dinner?” was treated like we’d asked her to solve the riddle of the Sphinx. There were screams. Tears. Sometimes not just from her.

So, like any worn-down but determined adults, we made a food rota. It is beautiful. It is on photo paper. It is colour-coded. It is our saviour.

Meals are now divided by hunger level and cooking time, and she uses it like a blessed oracle. If you dare say “I don’t know what I want,” she will physically drag you to the rota and point, like a benevolent but slightly bossy maître d’.

The Bedtime Gauntlet

After dinner comes the usual pre-bed obstacle course: brush teeth, bath or shower, nail trimming (if needed), and hair re-plaiting, because of course a bedtime story cannot be enjoyed with tangled hair. That would be uncivilised.

Mum handles the upstairs routine, while Dad retreats to the kitchen to clear up and heat the bedtime penguin. We won’t explain what the bedtime penguin is. It’s probably safer for everyone that way.

By 8 p.m. (ish), the Fae is asleep, curled up like a contented woodland sprite, and we collapse onto the sofa like war survivors. Victory. For now.

The Calendars: Our True Deities

We don’t just use calendars. We worship them.

• The Year Planner: A mighty wall-beast tracking term times, holidays, birthdays, and major life events. It reassures her that school will come back, holidays will end, and order will be restored.
  
• The Monthly Calendar: For grown-up things, like dentist appointments and existential dread.
  
• The Weekly Velcro Calendar: A stroke of genius that lets us show her what’s happening each day. School? Grandparents? Gym? Us? She likes to know who she’ll be yelling at in advance.
  
• The School Timetable: Assuming it’s been provided and hasn’t been lost in the Bag of Eternal Crumbs, this tells her what’s going on during school hours.
  
• The Food Rota (again): So good it deserves to be on this list twice.
  

The Big Picture

Between all the charts, rotas, calendars, and ritual objects (looking at you, penguin), the Fae one always knows where she is, where she’s going, and what she’s doing when she gets there.

For a child who doesn’t love listening, has a limited supply of spoons, and an impressive capacity for dramatic meltdowns when overwhelmed, this structure is our lifeline. It gives us a fighting chance of ending each day without someone sobbing under the dining table.