Conversations With My Fae Child (or: Why I Should Really Carry a Rosetta Stone)
I know that having conversations with neurotypical children would tell you that half of this is perfectly normal, but since my daughter decided that speaking was something she might dabble in (a hobby she’s really only committed to for the past two years), I’ve found myself trapped in an array of frequently baffling, often bizarre, and entirely unrelated conversations. Conversations that seem to have no start, no middle, no end and—crucially—no point.
These conversational quests can last anywhere from seconds to several months. I usually nod along, hoping that eventually something will click into place, or that she’ll accidentally provide a clue that helps me decipher whatever plotline we’re currently in.
Her latest revelation? She is no longer a hunter. This is a relief, because the only things she hunted were buildings—schools, shops, anything bigger than her and blessed with walls. She hunted by crouching dramatically, sniffing the air, and sprinting in what she believed was the correct direction. She almost always missed her target entirely, which honestly feels like more of an achievement than actually finding it.
Unfortunately, the retirement from hunting has been followed by a promotion: she is now a superhero with ice powers. This means she attempts to “skate” everywhere—despite wearing shoes with the friction coefficient of industrial sandpaper—while making loud “shh-shh-shh” noises and flailing her arms like a caffeinated windmill. Merely existing in her proximity is now a hazardous occupation.
It also means I’m informed, multiple times a day and always in a stage whisper only small children can achieve, that she is a superhero and that this information is a secret. A secret she broadcasts to the entire postcode.
Then there are the conversations that look like they were written by someone who only skimmed the manual for reality. Such as my attempt to explain that placing a bag on her head and running at top speed will not give her the ability to fly. It doesn’t matter how fast she goes. It doesn’t matter how aerodynamic the bag is. Gravity is simply not negotiable.
Or the ongoing debate as to whether her kangaroo backpack can “freeze” the living room door shut. Spoiler: it cannot. What can happen is that something breaks. If it’s the backpack, she will cry. If it’s the door, we will cry. Apparently saying “cheese” is her counterargument. I, too, fail to see the connection, and yes—the argument is still active. Both backpack and door remain miraculously intact for now.
We also get stand-alone statements like, “Yours is pink and Daddy’s is black,” delivered with the emotional intensity of a Shakespearean confession, but with absolutely zero context. Your guess is as good as ours; we just shrugged and braced for the meltdown that inevitably followed.
My favourite, however, is: “What time will it be tomorrow?” Truly a philosophical masterpiece.
Other highlights include her proudly informing me, during a downpour, that I was wet. This was while I wrestled her into her car seat as rain dribbled down my back. When I pointed this out, she kindly encouraged me, “Don’t be sad.” When I suggested she might let me get in the car so I could stop being wet, she replied, “Don’t be silly.” The child knows her boundaries.
Speaking of boundaries, during one evening of total exasperation—after weeks of food-related meltdowns—I declared that I would choose dinner until she behaved. Instead of perceiving this as an incentive, she collapsed to the floor screaming, “I’M NEVER GOING TO CHOOSE AGAIN!” Dramatic, yet consistent.
And of course, when asked to play alone in her playroom, she wailed, “I can’t be left unsupervised! I’m a MUPPET!”
Honestly… she’s not wrong. There is no counter-argument.
I live with chaos in small human form and to add to the fun now we have a puppy because that will calm things right down…
Raising the Modern Fae 