This is not much a post but rather a glossary of places to go for help. After all everyone needs support sometimes. I have tried to keep them to national level but you will find that your local council will be able to help you and point you in the direction of other agencies.
Autistic meltdown: when an autistic person is struggling to process too much information at one time leading to feelings of high anxiety and stress. Often linked to times where they have had to mask or been flooded with sensory input. They will lose complete control of their behaviour and it is often mistaken for a tantrum. Can be expressed verbally or physically.
Blue badge: A parking permit that allows access to disabled and priory bays in most car parks and also reduces parking restrictions.
Carer’s allowance: a benefit you are entitled to if your fae receives the mid/highest levels of DLA (see below) and you meet specific criteria with regards to earnings and care. you will need to apply for it
DLA: Disability Living Allowance. A benefit that your fae is/may be entitled too. You can apply to central government for it once you have a formal diagnosis. The form is over 20 pages long and is generally considered to be agony to fill in. You will need supporting statements from professionals. I am writing a separate blog on this. Watch this space.
Echolalia: continuousnonsensical repetition of sound or a word. Sometimes referring to as audible stimming.
EHCP: Education Health Care Plan. A vital (and legally binding) document that states what provision needs to be in place for your child. It is vital, if you are considering a special school placement, that your child has an EHCP, and you can self refer to your LA to have assessment done to see if your fae meets the criteria to have one. You will need evidence. Keep every document you have stating the needs of your child.
MAAT: Multi-agency assessment team. When undergoing diagnosis you will find that a lot of people have input into your fae’s final diagnosis., they range from health visitors and GP’s to speech therapists and nursery workers. When they get all these people together to talk it’s call a MAAT meeting.
Masking: The trait of neurodivergent to hide or suppress behaviours when around neurotypical groups due to wanting to fit it. It can be exhausting and lead to autistic meltdown as soon as the person is removed from the situation they feel they needed to mask in.
LA: Local authority, the council for the area that you live that is responsible for providing education and health services to your family.
PDA: Pathological Demand Avoidance, a subset of conditions linked to ASD which can lead to conflict.
PPD: Post partem depression, depression a significant number of mothers feel after giving birth, normally but not always linked to hormone changes
PORTAGE: is a support model for ASD children and their families, it can also be used to help LAs assess children and direct parents to the most appropriate educational pathway for their child.
SENDIASS: Special educational needs and disabilities information and support service. These people know everything there is to know about guiding you through MAAT meetings, DLAs, and challenging decisions. If you are struggling to get anywhere then google you local SENDIASS and they will be able to help you.
Sensory Seeking / sensory avoidant being either over or under stimulated by sensory input, AuDHD/ neurodivergence can make someone both sensory seeking and sensory avoidant. Fun isn’t it?
Stimming / Stim repetitive movement / noise making that provides sensory feedback to a sensory seeking child. The Dictionary defines it as as:
the repetitive performance of certain physical movements or vocalizations, as a form of behaviour by persons with autism or other neurodevelopmental conditions; self-stimulation. This behaviour is thought to serve a variety of functions, such as calming and expression of feelings.”stimming was part of her coping mechanism”
Don’t be shy; like, comment or share – it’s good to know we’re not alone with our struggles
This is going to upset a lot of people who think this is gatekeeping, but it needs to be said.
I don’t think there is such a thing as being “a little bit autistic”. Or a little bit ADHD. Or a little bit OCD. Or a little bit any other form of neurodivergence. You either are, or you are not. You cannot have “a bit of ’tism”, so please stop saying it. Stop saying things like “well, we’re all a bit on the spectrum.” No. We are not. That is not to say that ASD isn’t a spectrum, it is but saying everyone is on it is like saying because everyone has eyes everyone needs glasses. It doesn’t make sense and it simple isn’t true.
If everyone were, the world would look very different.
If the people who make the laws, rules, and decisions were autistic, life would not be an endless assault of forms that make no sense, contradictory instructions, arbitrary deadlines, and questions that could have been answered by reading the information already provided. Systems would be logical. Paperwork would be clear. Processes would work. Instead, navigating modern life often feels like a particularly cruel escape room designed by someone who hates you.
Lights would also be banned from flickering. Entirely.
If you don’t notice that LED lights flicker at around 50Hz—or that electricity itself makes noise—I envy you deeply. If everyone became distressed by background music, there would be strict limits on volume in public spaces. Fifty decibels max for non-essential audio systems. No tinny pop music bleeding into your skull while you’re just trying to buy milk. No surprise soundtracks in shops. Peace would reign.
Changing a shop layout overnight would be illegal. Menus would not suddenly change format for “fun”. Any “new and improved” recipe would require a clearly labelled phasing-in period of at least a year, and manufacturers would be legally obligated to announce packaging changes well in advance so nobody accidentally bought the wrong thing and had their entire week ruined by a different texture.
It would also be entirely acceptable to leave a meeting because someone was wearing strong perfume, cologne, or simply smelt. Makeup would no longer be considered the default expectation for women, but an option—because for some of us it feels like clawing our own skin off and suffocating at the same time. That’s not a feminist statement. That’s a sensory one.
So no, not everyone is “a little bit on the spectrum”.
Liking your books lined up neatly does not make you OCD. Enjoying organisation does not mean you have a debilitating, intrusive, anxiety-driven condition that can consume your life. Saying it does is insulting to people who actually live with it.
Neurodivergence is not fun. It is not a quirky personality trait. It does not give you magical memory powers, and it is not a free pass to be rude, cruel, or socially inappropriate. Being autistic is not a get-out-of-jail-free card for bad behaviour.
You still have to learn how to behave. You still have to learn what is acceptable.
We have started explaining this to our fae child: yes, her way may be logical, but humans expect a certain level of decorum, and she needs to learn how to pass as one. Is that unfair? Absolutely. Is it necessary for her safety and ability to exist in the world? Also yes.
Does this get us strange looks? Of course.
Does she adjust her behaviour in public?
…Well. I remain hopeful.
Merry Christmas to all—a strange human tradition involving killing trees and exchanging brightly wrapped parcels. This one, at least, my fae loves.
I have finally found—after, I admit, a lot of searching (to the point that Meta’s algorithm eventually cottoned on to what I was looking for)—a charity to help us train our puppy into a reputable service dog. They’re recognised by the government and the NHS, so yay. They also charge north of £3,000 per annum to support training.
Three grand. To help train a dog.
They do say you might be able to get funding via the NHS, various grants, or DLA—provided you have the correct words on the EHCP, have prayed to the correct god of finance, and burnt sage under a full moon on the second Monday of the fourth month. Or something equally likely. My daughter’s EHCP review meetings happen annually and I haven’t seen her updated completed copy since 2022. That is how far behind the process is running. It’s stupid, but true.
Now, I know some people would argue that maybe we don’t actually need a service dog (we do, but that’s a separate conversation). Or they’ll argue we could just save the money. But that’s not the point.
The point is this: this is simply the latest item on an endless list of expenses that come with raising a SEND child—costs that parents of neurotypical children simply don’t face. I started totting it all up. Some of it we’re in the fortunate position to afford, and some we only managed by selling a house in the South-East and moving to a deprived area in the North so we could pour every penny into our daughter’s needs. I know that isn’t possible for everyone. But when you remote-work and you have no options left… drastic becomes logical.
So. The SEND tax:
ÂŁ3.3k for service-dog training (not including standard puppy classes or the actual cost of buying the dog, feeding the dog, or keeping the dog alive).
Childminders: ÂŁ40 per hour.
No nursery would take her without one-to-one support. The paperwork required it. The nursery refused without it. The council refused to fund it. So we paid for childminding.
ÂŁ10k on air conditioning.
Not optional. She overheats and vomits. We need to maintain the temperature of her room. She also needs a weighted blanket to sleep (sometimes under it, sometimes hugging it), so the room must stay at 18°C all year round. We installed solar panels to offset the AC cost.
ÂŁ200 per month for gym membership and lessons.
Also not optional. And frankly cheaper than the £40 per session it would cost for ASD-specific classes. She needs to regulate by running and throwing things, and the kids’ club is ideal. Plus she can smack water in the pool to her heart’s content and get all the sensory input she needs without me worrying she’s going to injure herself—or someone else.
A play/sensory room.
She can’t have toys in her bedroom because she will overstimulate and never sleep. So we needed a separate room for play. It also has a sensory corner with lights, blankets, and balance boards. I’m not even working out the cost of buying a house big enough for this. I will cry.
Don’t even get me started on the number of hairdryers, hairbands, clips, and accessories we’ve gone through to find ones she can tolerate. Or the amount of food that gets binned because she can no longer eat the thing she ate yesterday.
So when people tell me we got her diagnosed for the “benefits”…
Please, show me what fucking benefits.
I had to turn down a ÂŁ50k per year job because childcare and transport would have cost more than staying home and looking after her myself. Not to mention the number of meltdowns, emotional crashes, and pure stress that would come from breaking her routine. Absolutely insane.
But sure. The ÂŁ500 a month from DLA is totally worth it.
A drop in the ocean.
A polite splash on the surface of a financial black hole.
At this rate, in six months—if we buy nothing else, forgo food, heating, cooling, transport, and clothing—we might manage to pay for the first year of service-dog training.
My fae child has a diverse group of friends, and observing them in their natural habitat (my house) is rapidly becoming my favourite branch of amateur anthropology.
I am fortunate that I like all her friends and their parents. This means that, during play dates, we parents can sit in the kitchen with a cuppa, listening to the distant sounds of destruction echoing through various rooms of the house without feeling compelled to investigate. We only move if (a) the screams become blood-curdling or (b) it goes silent. Silence is the real threat. Small children only go silent when they’re either eating something they shouldn’t or plotting something they really shouldn’t.
It’s the children’s arrival behaviour, however, that provides the richest data set. I can spot the fae child from the non-fae within three seconds of the door opening. Their approaches to entering a home are so wildly different that I’m convinced anthropologists could write entire PhD theses on them.
Fae children, for instance, behave as though my hallway is a portal to their ancestral lands. Shoes are kicked off (sometimes into orbit), coats are dropped wherever gravity decides to take them, and without even a nod in my direction, they follow the faint psychic pull of my daughter into whatever room she has chosen to manifest in. There is no greeting. No small talk. No transition period. They simply arrive, select the nearest object of interest, and immediately begin generating chaos, noise, and snack-related demands. They do not ask permission. They do not even consider asking permission. They take over the house like a tiny, glitter-dusted insurgency.
Non-fae children, by contrast, follow the more traditional rituals of polite society. They remove their shoes carefully, pair them neatly (in someone else’s house!), and place their coats on hooks as though silently apologising for the inconvenience of existing. Then they stand in the doorway, overwhelmed by the concept of “play,” until prompted by a parent to go and join the fun.
At which point my daughter materialises like the Ghost of Christmas Future, beckoning them into whatever storyline she has prepared. And yes — despite their initial hesitation — noise, chaos, and general carnage follow soon after. Some behaviours are universal.
Regardless of origin, the results are the same: the house is inevitably trashed, the parents and I sit drinking tea and pretending we can’t hear anything, and we eventually end up being dragged to watch a “show” with no discernible plot. These shows usually involve wands, capes, items stolen from the dressing-up box, and at least one argument over who gets to be Elsa. At the moment, most plays centre around Elsa fighting a dinosaur, which I can only assume is a bold reinterpretation of pre-historic feminism.
What fascinates me most is the cleanup ritual.
Fae children — who previously behaved like cyclone incarnate — can somehow remember exactly where every toy originated and will return all several hundred Paw Patrol figures to their precise clan territories. Non-fae children tidy too, but in a more generalised, “objects go in boxes” manner. This is how Mighty Zuma ends up fraternising with Dino-Zuma, which is apparently a grave offence punishable by autistic shrieking.
But honestly, it doesn’t matter who comes over. I love the noise, the chaos, and the delighted shrieks of my fae child engaged in joyful mutual destruction with her friends. And even more than that, I love the post-play-date silence and the dramatic collapse afterward, when she is too tired to do anything but eat dinner and pass out like a small, exhausted woodland creature.
My husband and I were talking to — or more accurately, in front of — our daughter today when it occurred to me that I’m genuinely not sure whether all the small things we’ve ever been responsible for are naturally incapable of surviving on their own, or if we emit some strange aura that turns them into hopeless little creatures.
Since living together, my husband and I have had two puppies, two cats, and a child. Not a single one would have survived in the wild, despite animal instincts or, frankly, any sense of basic self-preservation.
Our first puppy was very intelligent, very cute (she knew it), and had the energy levels of a toddler on Red Bull. She was a collie–husky cross, which meant half of her wanted to run in a straight line until she reached the North Pole, and the other half wanted to herd anything with four legs. The result was a puppy who ran in wavy lines, refused to walk to heel on the lead, and glued herself to our heels the moment she was off it.
We eventually solved this by allowing her to carry one end of a six-foot stick while we held the other. Don’t ask. It worked. Mostly.
One day, I gave her a sliver of Sunday roast in the garden. It dropped on the gravel, and from that moment until the day she died she attempted to chew every pebble in search of more elusive beef-flavoured stones.
The kittens were even more ridiculous. Before they were old enough to be vaccinated, the shelter instructed us to keep them inside. At night, we kept them downstairs with free rein of the main room, and put a 10-lb lead ball on a chain (as you do) in front of the kitchen door so they couldn’t get in and cause chaos.
One morning, my husband came downstairs and both kittens were gone. The weight was still in front of the only door… yet no kittens. It turned out they had batted the weight aside just enough to open the kitchen door, gone inside, dragged the chain back under the door, and pulled it tight behind them. They had, quite literally, locked themselves in the kitchen.
When freed, they did everything in their power to pretend they had definitely not been in the kitchen and were absolutely not that stupid.
Later, one of them fell ill and dramatically curled up on a chair radiating, “Leave me to die.” After syringing milk into her tiny, melodramatic mouth, we discovered she was simply dehydrated — she had forgotten to drink from the bowl two feet away. She is now a 15-year-old cat, still ridiculous, but occasionally remembers to hydrate.
And the child?
Well. This entire blog is one long catalogue of “where do I start?!”
She tried to walk off a broken arm. She ate rocks (and crayons, and several other non-edible substances). She refused to eat actual food. She sees sleep as an optional extra she will not select because of FOMO. Yesterday she attempted to find the correct piece of Lego by waving a bright pink shark slipper over the pile and hoping it would land on it. (It did not.)
Which brings me to our most recent puppy — the one we bought as a family pet, with vague aspirations of training him as a service dog for the child.
Yesterday he spent the entire afternoon barking, whining, and scratching at his crate door. We let him out repeatedly. He ran outside, played, did his business, and then bolted straight back into his crate… only to repeat the cycle. Over and over. I was losing my mind. He had toys, chews, water — everything.
Then my husband realised his food bowl was still full.
He dragged the puppy back down the stairs, made him look at the bowl before he could sprint back up, and puppy immediately inhaled a bowl and a half of kibble. He had forgotten to eat. Despite running past the bowl all afternoon. Apparently bubbles and his best friend are more important than basic survival.
So here we are: pairing the puppy who forgets to eat with the child who forgets everything, and hoping they will somehow balance each other out.
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…
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
We survived half term. I’d love to say we thrived, but honesty compels me to admit we’re merely trending upwards from a week of meltdowns and screaming matches. If I’m told to “go in the bin” one more time, I might actually take the advice and move into the recycler like Oscar from Sesame Street. At least it would be quiet in there.
Right now, we’re in that stage of puppy ownership that feels a lot like having a newborn again — hourly toilet trips, constant supervision to stop it eating things it shouldn’t, nipping, yapping, bouncing, and inevitable “deposits” in the house despite our best efforts. Because, clearly, we didn’t already have enough chaos in our lives.
In fairness, we did rather stack the deck against ourselves. Within forty-eight hours we managed to: get the puppy, host a relative visiting from 200 miles away, celebrate Halloween (a major event on the fae calendar), and throw a party. After that marathon, this week has actually felt… manageable.
The fae child, meanwhile, is desperate to help train the puppy. There’s only so much a seven-year-old can do at the best of times — add in the fact that she’s still a little nervous around dogs, and things get interesting. She wants to help, but won’t sit on the floor. She’s also baffled that the puppy doesn’t instantly respond to the name she’s just decided he has (“Ninja”). After all, she knows that’s his name now, so why doesn’t he?
Still, things could be worse. I’ve only been peed on once, the indoor accidents aren’t daily anymore, and Ninja seems to take great pride in tidying his toys back into the box. (I suspect we may have adopted a neurodivergent dog.) He hardly barks, which is another win.
All in all, Ninja is settling in beautifully. We’ve only lost him once — when he discovered stairs and ascended them like a conquering hero — and the fae child wears him out nicely after school.
The only family member unimpressed by his arrival is the cat. But then, she’s never happy about anything. She’ll get over
This week is half term. I hate half terms. They’re not long enough to form a new routine and just long enough to destroy the old one.
I do recognise that both kids and teachers need the break (I taught long enough to know the thousand-yard stare of week-seven exhaustion). My daughter—who adores school—is usually clinging to sanity by her fingernails by the end of it. Still, I dread it.
So, in an effort to head off the inevitable meltdowns (her grandparents are away on a well-deserved holiday, leaving her stuck with me all week), I started planning a month ago.
This, of course, backfired spectacularly.
By the week before, I had so many activities planned that I couldn’t tell where she was supposed to be or when—and she kept wanting to add more. In desperation, I fed all the data into an AI.
It spat out a timetable. Yay.
It started at 9 a.m. (reasonable, since the first activity with a set time was 9:30) and ran until bedtime at 7 p.m., neatly broken into two-hour chunks with meal breaks. Brilliant.
I proudly showed it to my daughter on Saturday afternoon.
She promptly complained that it wasn’t in colour, didn’t show her uncle’s birthday, and didn’t include Grandma’s arrival.
Sigh.
I handed her a pack of felt-tip pens. She coloured it in while I added a stick figure and a birthday balloon.
She cut it out, deemed it “acceptable,” and stuck it to the door. Job done, I thought.
Until that night, when she ate dinner staring at it, lips moving silently as she checked each line. I have been less nervous during an OFSTED inspection. In fact, I think my work was scrutinised less by OFSTED than by a partially literate seven-year-old with a clipboard made of felt-tips.
Still, it passed muster and returned to the Wall of Schedules (there are seven now). I relaxed.
Until this morning, when she appeared at 8:30 a.m. — dressed, brushed, and fed — ready for the day. She dragged a chair in front of the timetable and made her father sit beside her.
And there she stayed until 9 a.m.
Because the timetable said the day started at 9.
She couldn’t possibly watch TV, colour, or pack her sports bag before 9 a.m. — because it wasn’t on the timetable.
I’ve recently entered the world of advanced monologuing — or, to put it another way, I’ve started using AI programs. It’s something I never thought had a real place in the modern world, but frankly, I was wrong.
Before anyone jumps to the inevitable “computers will steal our jobs!”, let me assure you: they won’t. I wouldn’t trust an AI to change a lightbulb, let alone do anything more complicated. However, within their proper place, they are brilliant.
That place? Pattern recognition and rule application. If you want something proofread for spelling and grammar, they’re excellent.
If you want them to write an article or story—forget it. They can’t remember what they wrote a thousand words ago, let alone handle foreshadowing or subtlety. I wouldn’t trust one to compose a coherent letter, but to organise ideas logically? Absolutely.
In short, having a conversation with an AI is a lot like talking to an autistic child: they remember everything and apply nothing. If the rules make sense, they’ll enforce them with militant precision. If the rule doesn’t make sense, expect an error message.
I’m also fairly certain the AI I use runs out of spoons sometimes—it’ll suddenly announce that my chats are “too long” and tell me to start over.
That said, if you ever need to plan a half-term schedule, organise a holiday itinerary, or sort meal plans by cooking time and satiety, AI is your new best friend. It can do in seconds what would take hours to do yourself.
Just… double-check the pictures it produces. No one needs a banana-shaped cucumber on their food board
Sometimes it’s hard not to tear your hair out. Things that should be positive — fun even — can still derail the delicate machinery of routine and tip us straight into emotional overload. This weekend we had a boatload of it.
It started Saturday at the gym’s autumn celebration, where they’d decided face painting was a good idea. My daughter became a unicorn, her best friend a fairy, and together they flitted off happily into soft play, smearing greasepaint over all and sundry. There was also live… well, calling it music might be generous, but there were people in costumes enthusiastically producing noises with guitars and a drum kit. She loved it because the bass was so loud the floor vibrated.
Unicorn-face went to the library and the shops and didn’t have to wash it off until evening. That afternoon she had a play date (with the fairy) a few hours of running laps through the garden gates, making loom band bracelets, and generally raising hell. She was joyfully exhausted… right up until I told her it was time to go home. Cue screaming, tears, and the sort of meltdown that makes you question why you ever leave the house.
Sunday was worse. The spoons from Saturday hadn’t regenerated, her usual gym class was cancelled (a fact we’d reminded her of all week), and her grandparents were gallivanting around California instead of being available for her personal entertainment. Outrageous.
We baked chocolate chip cookies that afternoon. That, too, was wrong. (“Why chocolate chip?!” “Because they’re your favourite!” “No they’re not!”) Offering a bath later was treated as an act of cruelty, despite her loving swimming three times a week. The logic is her own private kingdom, and we are but confused travellers.
None of it was bad — not a bit. It was all good things. Just too many of them, too close together, too far off-script. By Sunday night we were thanking every deity we don’t believe in that Monday was coming and school would restore some order before half-term.
She doesn’t know it yet, but I’m planning to distract her during half-term with a puppy. That’ll help… right?
Raising the Modern Fae 