My daughter can argue with air.
I’d like to say that’s a metaphor, but I have genuinely heard her, alone in a room, having a full-blown argument when there was literally nothing there to argue with.
I like to think she’s simply honing her skills for a future career in politics.
Or law.
Either way, she’s developing an impressive ability to argue a point with absolute confidence regardless of whether reality wishes to participate.
I just wish she’d restrict herself to debating vacant spaces.
When she asks me to “play”, that innocent little four-letter word can mean any number of things.
Sometimes it genuinely means playing. Play-Doh. Colouring. Making bracelets. Water beads.
Sometimes it means body doubling. For anyone unfamiliar with the wonderful weirdness of neurodivergence, this is the inexplicable need for another human to simply exist in the same room while you do something else. In my daughter’s case, this usually involves me sitting nearby while she loudly disagrees with a YouTube video about Minecraft or cake decorating.
Then there’s the third category.
The dolls.
This isn’t really playing so much as being employed as a full-sized, unpaid, programmable puppet.
You’ll be handed several dolls before receiving a rapid-fire briefing on their names, ages, family relationships, favourite colours, pets, occupations, children and emotional baggage.
I hope you were taking notes.
There will be a quiz.
She then launches into a storyline that obeys neither the laws of physics, logic, time, nor child welfare.
Your role is to deliver whichever line has been assigned to your designated doll at precisely the correct moment.
Ad-libbing is forbidden.
Character development is forbidden.
Creative input is forbidden.
Any deviation from the approved script, however minor, will be met with the sort of withering look usually reserved for war criminals, and correction at sound levels that requires ear protection.
If you ever find yourself arguing with her, I’d like to offer some advice.
Don’t.
Whatever the subject, whatever your qualifications, however many decades of experience you have…
…you’re going to lose.
Accept it with dignity and move on.
I have a degree in Marine Biology.
I have nevertheless been informed, with complete certainty, that mermaids are real.
When I politely questioned the evidence, she informed me that if I didn’t believe she was a mermaid, she’d simply sit at the bottom of the swimming pool until I admitted I was wrong.
Approximately ten seconds later she resurfaced, looked me dead in the eye and explained that the room was actually upside down, the pool began at the ceiling, and therefore we were all standing on our heads.
You can’t really argue with that level of commitment.
My father-in-law spent his entire career working in colour printing.
Apparently decades of professional experience pale into insignificance when compared with a five-minute episode of Colourblocks.
My husband once made the fatal mistake of adding an unscripted line during one of her doll epics. Three generations were living in the doll’s house, a toddler had somehow become stranded on the roof, and he dared to improvise.
She immediately informed him that under no circumstances was he to add his own thoughts.
Attempting to salvage some parental dignity, he replied, “Philosophers are still debating whether free will even exists.”
Without missing a beat she replied,
“Philosophers don’t exist.”
That, as they say, was game over.
He laughed so hard he couldn’t continue.
To my knowledge, only one thing has ever defeated her in an argument.
The faucet at the gym. She came back from washing her hands absolutely soaked.
“What happened?” I asked.
She looked thoroughly offended.
“The tap was angry at me.”
Honestly…
…I can’t say I blame it.
Raising the Modern Fae 