When my fae daughter was a toddler, she had an affinity for rocks. And not in the whimsical, fairy-child, “I appreciate geology” sort of way. No. She had a deep and meaningful relationship with rocks—one that involved collecting them, cherishing them, and attempting to consume them like some kind of mineral-obsessed goat.
I’ve mentioned this before, I’m sure. We still have a set of “indoor rocks” that live in the house, relics of her toddler years like some families keep baby shoes or lockets of hair. Other people have memory boxes. We have… sediment.
She played with rocks constantly. Why throw a soft ball when you could hurl something that could chip a tooth or break a window? Why carry a teddy when you could carry a stone that weighs half your body mass? And most relevant to this post: she tried to eat them. Continuously. Enthusiastically. With the kind of commitment Olympic athletes train for.
This drove both myself and my husband INSANE. Every outing—even brief ones—turned into an archaeological expedition from which she inevitably returned clutching a rock the size of her own head. If she didn’t try to smuggle it home, she’d try to chew it. It wasn’t hunger; we fed her actual edible food. She just preferred rocks. As one does.
Then lockdown happened—remember that, or have you repressed 2020 like I have?—and the problem escalated because our back garden at the time was about three-quarters gravel. A vast kingdom of edible joy. Gravel could be scooped by the handful. Gravel could be concealed in pockets, fists, and—my personal favourite—in nappies. Do you know true parental panic? True, soul-deep dread? It’s when you open a nappy and have to determine whether your child has digested the gravel or simply used the garment as a convenient transport vessel.
Honestly? It was a relief when she discovered crayons. I will take rainbow-coloured poops over gravel-based anxiety any day. The day I realised she hadn’t eaten a rock but had instead eaten half a pack of Crayolas, I practically celebrated.
I bring all this up now because I am currently reliving the rock-eating era—with the puppy. I have spent the past week prying pebbles, gravel, and actual chunks of masonry out of its mouth. This dog has more chew toys than the cat has bad attitudes, but what does it crave? Rocks. ROCKS. The puppy finally stopped trying to eat gravel only to immediately begin gnawing on the brickwork of the house. The house. The literal structure keeping us warm and safe. It looked me dead in the eye with a chunk of mortared wall between its teeth like, “This is fine.”
So here’s my question: if a fae child spends enough time with a puppy, do they eventually start sharing one brain cell? Because I’m seeing a lot of shared behaviours here, and I am not going through another crayon-poop phase. I don’t care how magical my offspring are—there is only so much colour-coded bowel movement analysis a parent can take.
If this puppy starts eating crayons, I’m moving out
Raising the Modern Fae 