In 1889 William Butler Yeates wrote one of his more notable poems, The Stolen Child, based upon the Irish legend of the changeling. The poem contains this haunting refrain repeated at the close of each stanza, “Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild. With a faery, hand in hand. For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.”
The legend of the changeling seems to cross all cultures, each country possessing some modified form of the story. The legend states that under the dark of night, a fairy would come from the woods, and take the place of a young human child. The exchange itself made successful only by the fairy’s magical ability to transform their appearance into the child’s identical physical match, and thus enabling them to remain undetected in the human family’s home. What the fairies did not take into account was that their altered behavior might give them away.
The reason why a particular child was selected or even the fate of the human child once stolen varied from legend to legend. What remained the same, no matter the story-teller’s origin, was the truth that parents desperately needed an answer to the matter of their once sweet and adorable child, transforming…. seemingly overnight…. into an unexplained, dark, and sinister creature.
The mother had joked on many occasions that if she could survive this past school year, she could survive anything, but she might have made this declaration a bit too hastily. The year was a busy juggle of schedules and needs. The boy was in kindergarten each afternoon and the mornings were spent learning sight words and practicing his reading. The blonde had preschool a few days a week and was an eager student ready to learn all of her letters. The brunette required an afternoon nap each day to remain socially acceptable until bedtime. The baby was of course brimming with all the classic baby demands of eating, sleeping, and evacuating. The mother’s days as a quasi-event planner and chauffeur felt busy and yet strangely unproductive.
There were several occasions where the mother quite literally found herself needing to be in two places at once. It was a telling year in regards to the realities surrounding having a larger family of small children and how challenging it can be for a mother to juggle both her time and attention towards the individual needs of her offspring.
As the summer dawned, the mother was excited to partake in her ritual of selecting an activity that gave her the chance to obtain some much needed quality time with each of the children. Based simply on the realities of the demands of their life season and the brutal truth as to the limitation of time in a daily cycle, other than their weekly swimming lessons, the children did not participate in extra curricular activities throughout the school year. The children’s extra curricular fun took place over the summer vacation when the mother was able to give more attention to such endeavors.
This summer the boy had elected to participate in some soccer camps, informing the mother that he wanted to learn some moves. At the time, this seemed sweet but after the mother observed the feverish passion with which middle aged women, worldwide seemed to become enthralled by this year’s World Cup and more specifically the perfectly chiseled players of FIFA, the mother thought that these sweet and innocent soccer camps might one day prove her undoing.
(The mother makes a mental note to enroll the boy into science camps this coming school year to serve as a soccer player allure stabilizer for him in the future.)
The mother decided to enroll the blonde and the brunette into a gymnastics class as their elected activity and she was arguably more excited by the selection than even the girls themselves. From her earliest days of tummy time and obstacle maneuvering, the brunette had demonstrated abnormal levels of body and core strength for a person of her size. The mother on one occasion witnessed, quite unexpectedly, the 18 month old brunette scale a 5 foot high playground rock climbing wall, hot on the heals of her brother. On another occasion she found the brunette doing chin ups on an open kitchen drawer, apparently attempting to see inside. The mother was both impressed and alarmed by the brunette’s demonstration of strength and thus the mother thought that the brunette might be well suited for a pursuit of all things gymnastic.
At the time she had enrolled the girls into the class, the brunette was leaving the darling season of infancy and entering the land of independence and toddlerhood. And then, much like a fairy in the night…. it happened…the brunette and all her bubbling energy and sweetness seemed to morph into a shadow figure of her former self and standing in the mother’s kitchen was a child who looked much like the beloved infant they had raised and cared for…
…but now based on the banshee style proclamations of displeasure, the rabidly panicked displays of stranger anxiety, the disturbed and emotionally unstable declarations of everything both bothering and scaring her, the mother was quite certain that this was in fact no longer their child…. but rather a changeling residing in their midst.
The morning of their first class, the mother had gone to retrieve the brunette from her crib. “Do you know what we are going to do today?” the mother asked. “Gymnastics” the mother replied, pausing briefly and then answering her own question. “Nastics??” the brunette asked. “Yes, and its going to be soooo fun” the mother declared, attempting to circumvent any uncertainty surrounding this new adventure.
“Now, lets get dressed for gymnastics. We need to pick out some shorts,” the mother informed the skeptical brunette. Walking towards the dresser the brunette yells, “me do it…. my own self.” The mother simply smiles and says, “that’s just fine, but we need to pick out a shirt and shorts,” placing extra emphasis on the words shorts. “Shorts, yes,” the brunette replies, as if the idea had been of her own creation. The brunette selects her favorite Bat Girl t-shirt and a pair of blue and white striped legging pants. The brunette and the mother lock eyes. The mother says nothing in regards to the willful disregard for her very specific shorts selection request.
“Let’s put on this shirt and then we need to pick out some shorts…not pants to wear to our class,” the mother states placing the shirt over the brunettes head. Quickly, as if in a panic, the brunette proclaims, “I got it. Me no need help.” She quickly shoves her arms through each of the openings. “Phew, I did it,” the brunette declares with pride as if there had been some doubt as to her potential success.
The mother reaches for the pants, which she is quite sure, if it were possible, the brunette would wear every day. The brunette simply loves her blue and white striped pants. The mother looks at the brunette and then at the pants, “can you find some shorts? How about these?” she says holding up some gray ones. “No! Pants!” the brunette yells. The mother sighs, not prepared to make this a mountain she would die on at 6:32 am. “Fine, lets put on the pants,” the mother replies in an evidently irritated and slightly defeatist tone. The brunette clearly sensing her mother’s displeasure, immediately tenses as the mother reaches to lay the pants in front of her. “I want daddy!! Daddy help with pants!” the brunette yells.
In weeks recent, the brunette, who had always possessed great affection for her father, quite suddenly began requesting him at nap and bedtimes as the reader of her books. Whenever she fell and got hurt during the day, her proclamation was not the classic cry for her mother, but rather “daddy, daddy, I want my daddy.” And most notably, at any time she and the mother were clearly not seeing eye to eye on a matter, the brunette would call for her father, an action the mother can only assume was done in an attempt by the brunette to rally support for her side of the disagreement.
This particular morning proved no different and even as the mother was uttering the very words, “Fine…..lets go get daddy. He will help you.” The brunette continued to yell as they trekked across the upstairs landing as if she were being abducted by strangers in a questionable conversion van, “I want daddy! I want my daddy!” The mother simply sighed as she placed the brunette, who instantly stopped the loud and repetitive carrying on, into the arms of her father. Though the mother cannot prove it, she is quite certain the brunette cast her a smirk over her right shoulder as if to say toddler: 1, mother: 0.
A few days prior, in the midst of an equally demanding daddy declaration, which the mother was unable to quench as the requested daddy happened to be at work, the boy looked at the brunette and then to his mother and simply shrugged his shoulders as if baffled himself why such a scene was taking place. And then, most likely sensing the spirit of frustration by his mother, matter-of-factly stated, “if my dad were here and your mom were here and your dad were here this would be much easier.” So true son….so true, the mother thought.
The mother instead went to retrieve the blonde and the baby from their rooms and head downstairs. Not long after, the father descended the stairs, carrying the brunette, her blue and white stripped clad legs a striking symbol of her desire for independence from the will of her mother. “Girls, why don’t you pick out your plate and I will dish up your breakfast,” the mother directed. Both girls ran for the drawer in which the mother keeps an impressive, and theoretically conflict free, supply of melamine dishware featuring an array of Disney, Nickelodeon, Marvel, and Star Wars characters.
The blonde arrives at the dishware drawer first and stands in front of it, pressing her knee into the dark wood, and thus preventing it from being slid open, she mischievously grins. The brunette, most certainly annoyed that she arrived second, clenches her fists and screams into the blondes face, “Noooooo!” “Girls!” the mother interjects, “do not worry about each others plates…just get your own plate and bring it to me….and stop blocking the drawer.” “Arrrggghhh,” the blonde grunts, “hmmmpphhh, she is not my most favorite sister!” Neither girl moves. Neither girl has selected the requested plate. The mother sighs and looks at the clock, 7:14 am…..this is going to be a long day.
(The mother makes a mental note to set very low expectations for both involvement and cooperation at the first gymnastics class today.)
The mother walks over to the girls and squats down onto the floor next to them, “girls, we do not yell at our sisters. Please go and sit down. I will get your plates, myself,” the mother stated desperately wanting to calm the evident tension filling the air, as the count down to their first gymnastics class was quickly approaching in just 93 minutes. “I want Dora.” the blonde stated. “And I want Frozen,” the brunette declared as if these predictable selections were in some way unexpected or earth shattering to the mother.
As the girls began to eat their breakfast, the mother finally turned her focus towards the adorable, and ever so patiently waiting baby she had placed on the floor of the living room. The baby seemed to posses a spirit of perpetual happiness for which the mother had grown increasingly more grateful in her sister’s recent, mother diagnosed, changeling season. In spite of the evident toddler chaos around her, the baby seemed to disregard her sibling’s conflicts, looking upon them rather in awe and wonderment.
And as the mother walked towards the living room to retrieve the baby, the determined little fair haired girl made her way across the floor; each step a focused and intentional action. At just 9 months old the baby had taken her first steps and not but 10 days later, in what the mother can only assume was a motivated desire to keep up with her older siblings, her beloved baby was walking. The baby’s accelerated learning curve, the mother is quite certain, had much to do with the fact that her siblings would cheer and clap for her with each step she took.
With each of her children, the mother has found herself celebrating all their first year milestones with equal zeal. Applauding as they sat up unassisted. Delighting with them as they crawled. Cheering them on as they took their very first steps.
(The mother paused to wonder….since all milestones are declarations of independence…..what makes some more of a celebration than others?)
A few moments later the boy descended the stairs, wearing Captain America pajamas and scratching the back of his head. His gaze cast towards the direction of his sisters, he asks, “what did I miss?” The mother just laughs and says, “just your sisters driving your mother crazy…. way too early in the morning.” The boy just shrugs and says, “Oh…..well can I have Honey Nut Cheerios?” as if this statement by the mother was in no way shocking and needed no future examination. The mother just laughed, thankful for the boy, who had clearly never been taken by the fairies into the woods.
Much to the mother’s delight, the girls thoroughly enjoyed their first class at gymnastics. The mother quickly observed that the rigorous physical demands of the session hour served as a very welcome re-stabilizing sanctuary from their otherwise emotional morning. In peaceful moments such as these, the mother is reminded that she and the girls might yet survive the changeling years ahead.
Motherhood in Technicolor Memo: It’s admittedly much easier to enjoy the fulfilling milestones of achievement verses seeing the silver lining of the spirited milestones of independence. The first year of life is heavy in physical development and despite the struggle the season has clear and tangible rewards. The next two years of toddlerhood thrust the parent and the child into a season of emotional navigation and maturity. This time can be fraught with peril and frustration.
For the child, the capacity to successfully navigate themselves towards the promised land (aka age 4) is hinged solely on their ability to resolve conflict both with others and within themselves. For the parent, this season has been given the unsavory social stigma of being abhorrently terrible. No matter the child, the season must be navigated and certainly some of our children will do it with a bit more ease than others, but as parents we must remember we are not in a sprint but rather a long distance race.
Some of the course will allow us to travel through lush meadows along quiet streams, while other portions of the journey we might find ourselves running up some very steep and challenging hills. Take one step at a time….one day at a time…..keeping your eyes ahead of you on the path…..remembering the reward for completing this race will most assuredly be the most monumental accomplishment you make in your life time. Parenting is a marathon and when you feel yourself getting tired, remember…. you are not running alone.
Summer Smith is a speaker, writer, and motherhood blogger. She and her family are currently navigating the suburbs of Northern Virginia. As the mother to four young children, Summer maintains her sanity thanks to her sense of humor, copious amounts of coffee, and Amazon Prime. Maya Angelou once said, when reflecting on her childhood, that her mother left an impression like technicolor stars in the midnight sky. Influenced by these words, Summer blogs at her website Motherhood in Technicolor, and can also be found on her Motherhood in Technicolor Facebook page.