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… 

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.

Executive dysfunction at its finest.

I tried. I really did.

Maybe if I hide the chair?

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 took her to the park — her happy place — where she climbed every single tree, yelled at all the broken equipment, and marched us to the café for cake. But first, handwashing. Apparently that was a personal attack. Some of the trees were sticky (pine), stabby (sequoia), or poisonous (yew), and I explained why washing was important. Naturally, this meant she was now dying. She screamed in the car about the negligence of public tree policy all the way home.

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?

(Please tell me that’ll help.)

I’ve come to realise that raising a fae child is a lot like living with a particularly sassy genie: she will do exactly what you say, and absolutely nothing that you meant.

I’m not sure if this is a kid thing, a fae thing, or a kid fae thing, but teaching my daughter verbal cues is a fruitless battle that usually ends in exasperation—or laughter. And we only laugh because the alternative would cost too much in therapy.

She does not do verbal cues. To be fair, I’m not great at picking up on them myself, and my husband still kicks himself over some he missed as a teenager. But our daughter simply doesn’t process the implication of a statement. She takes everything at face value and will make assumptions that no one else on earth would.

For example: she wanted a toy from the sideboard. As all children do, she approached this goal in the most direct way possible—by turfing off everything that was either on or between her and the toy. Cue chaos.

I told her, “You’ve made a mess,” with the implied expectation that she would clear it up. She looked at me sweetly and replied, “I don’t mind,” before happily carrying on.

My bad. I wasn’t clear. Expecting her to stop and clean up was what I wanted her to do, but it’s not what I said. I stated a fact: there was a mess. She responded with her opinion: she was fine with it. As far as she was concerned, conversation over.

If I wanted her to a) not make the mess, b) stop and clear it, or c) maybe, just maybe, not pile toys in precarious towers to begin with—then that is exactly what I needed to say. The statement “You’ve made a mess” conveys nothing to her about what I expect her to do about it.

And that’s where verbal cues trip us all up.

Most of the time when we get frustrated or snap, it’s not because our kids are defying us—it’s because we haven’t been clear about what we actually want. We think we have (I know my husband did; he was doubled over laughing at her response), but adults have years of experience to draw on. What’s obvious to us isn’t necessarily obvious to them.

It reminds me of a rhyme I once heard about programming:

I hate this computer,

I really wish they’d sell it,

It doesn’t do what I want—

Only what I tell it.

Talking to my fae child is very similar to programming a computer. Except my computer doesn’t argue with me about bedtime, eat peanut butter with a spoon, or ask if we can have ice cream for dinner.

At least when the computer crashes it doesn’t demand snacks and paw patrol. 

Does anyone have a translation book, app, or—better yet—a small yellow fish you pop in your ear that will tell you what your fae child actually means?

I understand she’s still getting to grips with language. I understand that, because of the way her brain works (ooh look, fireworks!) she sometimes says things she doesn’t mean. That part I can handle.

The problem is when she says things she does mean… and they still make no sense.

Most of the time they’re harmless little statements that can be batted aside with vague noises of agreement. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard something incomprehensible, nodded wisely, gone “uh-huh,” and she totters off perfectly satisfied.

But sometimes. Sometimes. They’re not statements—they’re questions. And apparently, I’m expected to produce a coherent answer on the spot.

Well, shit.

For example, could anyone explain to me:

• “What time will it be tomorrow?”
  
• “Why doesn’t the kangaroo make me fly?”
  
• “Daddy, you should be mummy. Why aren’t you a mummy?”
  

I promise you, context does not help. I don’t get any context. I just get the question, then the question repeated with more irritation, then the question shouted at me, followed by stamping feet and the occasional small fist.

At this point my usual response is to declare “no hablo inglés” and suggest we watch Paw Patrol. Tactical retreat, problem solved.

And yet—I would still very much like to know why the kangaroo doesn’t make her fly, and more importantly, why she thought it should.

I asked ChatGPT for answers to the questions, this is what it had. 

Parent Survival Guide to Impossible Questions

In the spirit of helping other bewildered parents, here are some tried-and-tested whimsical answers you can keep in your back pocket:

• “What time will it be tomorrow?”
  
  Tomorrow will be 7 o’clock until further notice. We’re waiting for an official update from Father Time.
  
• “Why doesn’t the kangaroo make me fly?”
  
  Kangaroos only hand out flying powers on Tuesdays, and only if you’ve had three carrots. Check the fine print.
  
• “Daddy you should be mummy why are you a mummy?”
  
  Because every family needs balance: one mum, one dad, and one person who secretly eats the last biscuit.
  

Will she buy any of these? No. Will you feel marginally less like you’re failing a pop quiz written by Dr. Seuss? Absolutely.

So, hey, at least even the AI is stumped. Alas, this means we cannot add childrearing to one of the jobs robots will take from us. At least not for fae children. 

We’re not quite sure what happened last night. My husband and I have chalked it up to a glitch in the Matrix. If my fae child knows, she’s not telling.

School has been back for nearly a week—not the longest time, but long enough for routines to start settling and for us to spot the pressure points. Last night, we hit a new one.

Our bedtime routine—set in stone for years, and mentioned more than once on this blog—has worked without complaint.

Until last night.

Last night, she suddenly decided she didn’t want a bath. Or a shower. In fact, wiping her face with a cloth and brushing her teeth was apparently pushing it.

With some coaxing, we got her up the stairs. With more coaxing, we almost got her in the bathroom… before she collapsed on the floor, screaming that she “didn’t want to get wet.”

This, from a child who willingly spends two hours in a swimming pool twice a week.

We pointed out that she likes being wet. She was unmoved.

We reminded her the shower doesn’t have to be long. No interest.

I tried the classic: “You’ve done PE, dodgeball and yoga today. I just don’t want you to smell.” Nothing. No budge. She was holding that hill.

Ten minutes of cajoling (you can choose the bubble bath), bribery (you can have your favourite book after), and negotiation (what if you choose which shower we use—yes, we have more than one, no, don’t ask)… all of it: useless.

Eventually, we caved. We told her: if she pinky promises—because everyone knows a pinky promise is more binding than any magical oath—that she’ll shower tomorrow (yes, she can use Daddy’s shower), then we’ll compromise: just face and hands washed, and brush your teeth. Non-negotiable.

She sniffled, nodded, pinky swore…

Then got up, wiped her eyes, and marched straight into her father’s bedroom.

Leaving us baffled in the corridor.

A few minutes of bemused communication followed—a mix of words (us), noises and signs (her), and possibly semaphore (everyone)—and then…

She brushes her teeth.

She hops in the shower.

Wait, WHAT?!

I’m sorry, what just happened?

Weren’t we half an hour behind schedule because you didn’t want to do that?!

Didn’t we say you didn’t have to do that?!

Why are you doing that?!

I’m so confused.

She showers. She gets dressed. And bedtime routine resumes its regularly scheduled programming, if a little behind schedule. So… yay?

I guess?

But seriously.

What just happened.

Anyone?