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The Changeling's Dream
🕑 Added 2023-03-05 00:54:51 +0000 UTCYou wake up knowing things.
You’re in your room, your nursery. You’re in your crib with the bars up and your head on the pillow, the heavy blanket is loosely draped over you, keeping you nice and snuggly while still letting you move in your sleep.
You’re awake now, however.
The blankets are so comfortable that you roll over once or twice, just to see if you can fall back asleep. Sleep is always so much more enjoyable when you’re awake enough to realize it. As much as your muscles pleasantly ache and your arms and legs sing out in enjoyment when you stretch them and let them sink back into the mattress, you are awake.
It also annoys your cat. She was nesting comfortably on top of the comforter and betwixt your legs before you started rolling over, and now the real estate is much less prime. She lets out a quiet “mrow” of protest and leaps up and over the crib railing.
You sit up in your nightgown and stretch upwards towards the ceiling. You grab the railing and pull yourself up just enough so that you can sit on your knees. Your diaper squelches pleasantly beneath you, room temperature and very damp while still being very comfortable.
You slept through the use of it. You went to bed dry and woke up wet. This is normal. You’re a baby.
You take a second to admire your nursery. Everything is neat and orderly here. Your changing table and crib were made at the same time and painted in the calming deep purple of foxglove. The whites of the wall are soft and unobtrusive. The carpet is a simple beige, but its texture is softer on your skin than the walls are on your eyes.
You have toys, naturally, but they are not here by and large. There are other spaces in your house to explore and play through the creation of noise and chaos. This is your nursery, your quiet place where you are safe at the end of each day to drift into a peaceful slumber.
All you need here is the mobile over your head that plays your favorite Beatles song, your pillows that double as stuffed animals (or was it the other way around?), the rocking chair where Mommy breast feeds you, and the book shelves filled with stories that Daddy reads to you every night.
You’re a baby. A precious, silly little girl. You always have been. Always will be. You know this to be true as much as you know that the sky is blue, the grass is green, and that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.
You’re also a full grown adult woman. You’ve grown up. Lost baby teeth. You went through school. Went through puberty. Got in debt. You have a job. You pay rent to live in an apartment with a roommate that you barely talk to. You have breasts. You’ve had sex. You know all this too.
It’s like having a first memory. You look back into your brain and can go no further, yet you still know so many things with absolute certainty and clarity. You just don’t remember when you learned these contradictory things, and it doesn’t matter. Some of them are real memories. Some of them are story memories; the things that others told you about yourself so many times that you accepted it despite not remembering the experience for yourself.
This, in so many ways, this might be your first actual memory. Everything before now is just a story that was told to you so many times that you internalized it. Stories have such power. Dreams are real if we believe in them.
“Mommy!” You call out. “Mommy! I’m ready!”
Mommy comes into your nursery, smiling at you. “Good morning, princess!” She coos to you. She is bigger than you, but not larger than you. She is an inch or two shorter than you, but that changes nothing. She is Mommy: Giver of snuggles, blower of raspberries, and kisser of boo-boos. “Did you have a good sleep?”
You nod and bob your head, making your bangs flop lightly on your forehead. “Uh-huh!” You count in three to your head, so that you don’t seem rude. “Can I play?”
Mommy chuckles and lowers the crib bars. “Very good on the waiting, princess!” Mommy praises you. She leans forward and nuzzles her forehead against yours. “You’re being so patient!”
“Thank you,” you reply. “Can I?”
Mommy leans in and picks you up out of your crib. “How about we change your diaper, get you dressed, and get you breakfast first, huh?”
You think a moment to yourself and decide this is acceptable. “Okay.”
Mommy carries you over to the changing table and sets you down. There are neither metaphors or similes for how strong she is, or how light you seem, or how impossibly big the changing table is. You are baby. She is Mommy. This is normal.
“Arms up,” Mommy instructs, holding her hands above her head so that you can mimic. You do, smiling at how clever you are, and she pulls the nightie up over your head with a “Whoooooop!”
She puts it in the hamper to the left. You lie down with your head closest to the hamper. She guides you gently down, even though she doesn’t need to. She reaches underneath the changing table and takes out a fresh diaper to put you in and a ring of plastic keys to entertain you as she cleans you up. You could choose to be still, and keep your thoughts to yourself, just staring idly at the ceiling. You don’t have to though.
Mommy dangles the key over your head and you grab them. They’re all bright and happy colors,as well as a variety of textures and shapes. Each key unlocks a different part of your brain. So stimulating. A great warmup for the events that will surely happen today.
Four tapes sound off and Mommy opens your diaper. She takes the first of what will be many wipes from the caddy on the wall above you and starts gently dabbing and dragging them across your pelvis and between your legs. The key in your mouth is smooth and red, and shaped like a triangle on the end. The green one is soft and cloth-like and doesn’t crunch as much when you bite down..
Heavy, fast paced footsteps, with an underlying crinkle grab your attention. ‘Hi Mommy! Hi Sister!”
You just wave to him. It feels impolite to talk with your mouth full. He waves back and grins as soon as the two of you establish eye contact. In so many of the ways that don’t matter, Brother is your inverse. His nursery is bright, chaotic, and filled with toys that he is often loath to leave behind. He is louder than you but less adventurous, quick to suggest and slow to act. Always thinking, talking, and tinkering. Always building and deconstructing; if not with toys then with words. Always analyzing. Always worrying.
He also gives you great hugs and tells you it’s okay to cry. On the playground he is very protective of you. He listens well when he’s not distracting himself and will play with you all day if you can convince him. You’re very good at convincing him.
Brother: Creator of castles, blusher, and babbler.
At present, you’re also completely naked and he’s wearing blue and white pinstriped shortalls, but that’s less relevant.
You’ve never met this man in your life. Mommy neither. That doesn’t matter.
“Hi Mommy!” he repeats.
“Hello, baby boy,” Mommy says without turning around to look. She grabs another wipe and dabs the inside of your thighs and between your legs.
A light comes up behind Brother’s eyes. ‘I’m not a baby!” he says. His lips twitch and fidget on his face, struggling not to smile. You’ve never seen this before that you remember, but you know exactly what’s about to happen.
Mommy boosts your legs up and starts to gently wipe your bottom. “Did you poop?” she asks Brother point blank.
His back stiffens and he looks away from you. “No…?” He’s lying and all three of you know it. That’s not the point of this particular game. Brother only plays games that he wants to lose.
“I don’t think big boys fib about needing a change,” Mommy replies. She deposits the last of the wipes in your open diaper and slides it out from underneath you.
“I’m not fibbing,” Brother fibs.
“Then you must be a baby,” Mommy tells him. “Big boys know when they need their diapers changed.” She calmly rolls up your old diaper and places it in the pail to the right of your changing table. This happens all the time. This has never happened before. Both statements are true.
Dream logic. You know what you know even if you don’t know. It’s how the story works. First memories. The past exists outside of you.
Brother holds his place, but his eyes won’t stay still. “But-!”
“Daddy!” Mommy’s voice calls out. “Our baby boy needs changing!” She unfolds your fresh diaper in front of you. It has pink and purple pixies all over it. She boosts your hips up and slides it underneath your bottom, and reaches for the powder.
“Mommy!” Brother whines. “Noooo! I don’t!” His hands nervously fiddle with the bib on his overalls. You can think of at least three ways to turn this around to his favor, but this is his game to lose, not yours to win.
Daddy walks in and picks brother up. He’s bigger than any of you, but not so big as to be impressive. It’s a difference of six inches and fifty pounds if that. He has facial hair that you know you can tug on if you’re gentle. His kisses tickle the most. He’s the most likely to rough house and out of Mommy and Daddy, he is the most likely to give in and make something boring turn silly and fun. When Mommy asks for something, however, Daddy is sure to get it.
“Come on, sport,” Daddy says. “Let’s go.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Brother mumbles as he rests his head on Daddy’s shoulder.
Daddy says, “See you two in a minute” and carries Brother away.
You take the keys out of your mouth. “Bye, Daddy!”
“Bye, Princess!” He calls over his shoulder. “See you in a minute!”
Alone again. Alone at last.
You look at the keys and consider switching to the yellow one that squishes like jello, but then something happens inside your brain. How novel! A question you don’t already know the answer to!
“Mommy,” ask her, “is Brother my big brother or my little brother?”
Mommy is far from stumped. “He’s your baby brother,” she tells you, all the while dusting you with sweet smelling powder that tickles your nose and dries your skin.
“So I’m bigger?” you ask.
She laughs lightly and spreads your legs for you. “Goodness no, silly girl. You’re his baby sister.”
“We’re twins?” You can’t resist anymore. You stick the orange jello key into your mouth and start sucking on it, biting and tugging at it like a puppy playing with its bone. Mommy will understand.
The diaper is lifted up between your legs and folded over your front. “No,” Mommy says. “He’s older, but not much. Still only in double digits, same as you.”
You stare up at the ceiling and continue to nom and gnaw on your keys. Mommy takes the four tapes and fastens them on one at a time. One. Two. Three. Four. The diaper takes shape around you, clinging to your hips, hugging your backside. It goes from being a diaper to your diaper.
A contented sigh escapes you. “Then why isn’t he bigger?”
“Old isn’t the same thing as big,” Mommy says. She sits you back up as she always does.
“Who’s bigger?” You don’t really care about the answer, you realize. You just like the asking of the questions and the attention it gets you.
Mommy opens another drawer and takes out a lilac colored onesie. “You’re both babies,” she says. “That’s all that matters.”
“Okay.”
The talking pauses, but the sound doesn’t stop. Every move you make causes your fresh diaper to crinkle. The soft fabric of the onesie lightly chafes and rubs against your ears while Mommy pulls the onesie over your head. She hums tunelessly and the soft stretchy fabric of the onesie whispers sweet sounds to you while she guides your arms through its sleeves.
The fabric caresses your breasts and kisses your tummy when Mommy finishes pulling it on over you. You’re laid back one last time so that she can button it up; covering your diaper without really concealing it.
You are safe. You are clothed. You are clean. You are cherished. You are baby.
Mommy grabs a hairbrush and puts it in her pocket. She lifts you off of the changing table, and carries you over to her rocking chair.
“I love you,” she says. Her voice is like music to you.
Such music brings up another question. One you do want to know the answer to. “Why? What did I do?”
“I love you just for being you,” she promises. “You are perfect to me just the way you are.”
Does that mean you can never change? What if you’re not good enough? You lucked into this and Mommy will see through you unless you’re very careful.
Mommy looks into your eyes and reads your mind.
“There is no condition,” she says. “I love you no matter what. There is nothing you can do or be that will make me cease loving you.” Oh how you’ve longed to hear that. You hear it everyday. You have years of not hearing it.
“Tell me again,” you say. “Tell me you love me again. No matter what.”
So she does. Mommy sits you up on her lap facing away from her and removes the hairbrush from her pocket.
“I love you no matter what,” she tells you as she brushes your hair for you. “I love you no matter what.” With each gentle, pleasing stroke she repeats the phrase. You close your eyes and let the stiff bristles massage your scalp and straighten out your hair.
Mommy starts rocking gently in the chair. Like waves on a gentle ocean it rocks you. It calms and soothes you and adds to each brush stroke. Every rock forward takes you slightly away from Mommy while the brush gently tucks your hair and scratches your head. Every rock back takes you back into her where she reminds you of how much she loves you.
Brush.
“I love you no matter what.”
Brush.
“I love you no matter what.”
Brush.
“I love you no matter what.”
You’re humming now. It’s the same tuneless melody that Mommy was making when she was dressing you. You’re casting a spell on yourself. One that takes down barriers. Where did those barriers come from? You certainly didn’t get them here. This place is safe. It’s home.
“All done,” Mommy says after stroking your hair. She pulls you in closer to her so that you’re smushed together and she can rest her chin on your shoulder. “Milk now or milk later?” she quietly asks.
You love the idea of getting milk now. In your mind’s eye you can picture. Mommy would only have to help you turn around and adjust you so that you sit comfortably and suckle. She’d lift her cerulean colored top up, her breasts starting to drip and dribble. Then you’d let your head be guided towards them, pucker your lips and let everything go.
You would enjoy that intimacy. The feeling of the warm milk dribbling out into your mouth and gulping it down in tiny sips. Hearing Mommy’s breaths and quiet moans while she adjusted to the feeling of your lips working her tips. Maybe even her heartbeat. You’d synchronize your breathing, and as both of you got more comfortable, she’d start rocking and humming another tune again, interrupting herself only to praise you and tell you what a good girl you were.
Just thinking about it is enough to make you leap at the opportunity. But you also miss Daddy and Brother. Time is meaningless yet you haven’t spent enough time with everyone. “Can we get some breakfast first?” you ask.
Mommy seems to understand. “Okie dokie. We’ll get you some solids.” She rises up with you and turns you around to carry you. She pivots you and your bare legs wrap around her waist and your arms find a comfy spot clasping onto her shoulders without constricting her or restricting her movement. The whole thing is second nature by this point.
She takes you across the threshold and walks directly into the kitchen with you. One of Mommy’s feet lifts off your nursery carpet, and when it’s set down, it’s on the crisp, clean, white tile of the kitchen. Hallways are silly unless you need something to roll toilet paper down (there’s a thought for later) so your family doesn’t tend to use them unless they need towels or something.
Brother is already in his highchair. You know it’s his because it’s blue, he’s sitting in his, and his name is stenciled on the back of it in bright bubbly yellow letters. You can’t read, but you know this to be fact.
Your own highchair next to his awaits. It is rose petal pink and your name is likewise stenciled in the back, in gentle greens with hints of brown like healthy vines of ivy. It’s not the name most people call you. It’s the name that Mommy and Daddy call you in private, when they want to let you know just how much they love you.
You can’t pronounce it; don’t know what it is, but you know it when you hear it. You might have heard it in a dream just before you woke up today.
The air is alive in the kitchen. Daddy is by the stove casually cooking up a storm, and the sound of sizzling and the smell of eggs and bacon promise your nose that your tongue will be most happy.
Mommy places you in the highchair by the table and clicks the tray into place, making sure you’ll be safe.
“Smells great, Daddy.” Mommy calls over.
“Thanks, Mommy,” he says.
Mommy joins Daddy by the stove and they give one another a kiss. Daddy flips an egg over, and turns some sausage. They start talking to one another. It might be in another, more adult language, or it might just be incredibly boring. Your attention goes elsewhere.
“Morning again, Brother,” you say.
He jerks as if from a trance. “Hey, sis! How are you?”
Oh. Sis! So much less formal! You like the sound of it. “I’m good, bro. Hungry.”
He nods seriously. “Meeeee too.”
Something is different about him, but it’s hard to put your finger on it. You lean forward and catch a glimpse under his tray. His legs are as uncovered as yours.. “Where’d your pants go?”
Brother blushes. “Daddy said it was too early for me to have pants on.” His blush turned into a pout. “Thought I’d wipe syrup all over my shortalls and be sticky all day.”
“Good advice,” you say. Before he can argue as he does, you let chirp out. “Wanna play later?”
“Yeah!” he proclaims. Then he seems slightly frightened. It’s not good to agree to the terms of a blank contract. “I mean…um..what did you have in mind.”.
You shrug. “I don’t know. Watch cartoons? Maybe we could just play on the floor next to each other?”
He tilts his head from side to side, considering your offer. “I could do with some parallel play,” he decides. “If I build anything do you promise not to knock it down?”
A promise. Oooooh. That was something that could be potentially binding! You briefly consider some word play. Yet…he’s been a good brother his entire life, despite just meeting him. “Today, I will only knock down something you’ve made if you explicitly give me permission to with full knowing consent.”
His eyes skip around the inside of his skull while he does the linguistic calculus, looking for traps and loopholes. To your knowledge, you’ve set none, but are flattered by the respect and care being given. Is this what a healthy sibling rivalry might feel like?
“Deal,” he finally says.
“Right on time!” Daddy proclaims. He steps directly in front of you and slides a plate of steak and eggs with hashbrowns in front of you. The steak is already cut up, medium rare. The eggs are over hard. The hashbrowns are smothered in onions and covered in cheese. Each item in this menu is on a segmented plate “Eat up,” Daddy says, taking up all of your attention.
You look down at your plate. You’ve not been given utensils. Eating with your hands doesn’t feel exactly right in the moment, either. Nothing is messy enough to be fun.
“Unless you need help?” Daddy suggests.
“Can I have help?” You choose to say. “Feed me?”
“For my little princess,” Daddy says. “Anything.”
A fork floats over from the kitchen drawer and he stabs a piece of steak. He holds it up to your mouth and you lean forward so that your teeth and lips pluck it from the prongs. You chew carefully, doing your best to savor the seasoning and the tenderness of the meat. Truly, no baby but you has ever had it so good.
The process repeats itself over and over again. Daddy will take a bit of hearty breakfast food, hold it out for you, and you lean out just enough to take it from him. “Egg next please, Daddy.”
“Good girl,” he praises you. “Good using your words.”
The egg is just as good as the steak. The hashbrowns filling. Your tummy is getting full. It is very possible you won’t be able to finish this simple yet wonderful meal. There’s just too much. Is the colorful plate even getting cleaner?
“Daddy,” you ask, “am I a baby?” It is the inverse of Brother’s argument, but you are longing to hear the same conclusion.
“Of course,” Daddy says. “You’ll always be my baby.”
“Who wants something to drink?” Mommy asks.
“Me!” Both you and Brother say in unison. You turn your head and notice him. His fingers are dripping with syrup and there’s bits of bacon and sausage clinging to his chin.
“Brother!” You gasp. “How did you even manage that?” Daddy was right to strip him down to just his t-shirt and diaper.
Your sibling is suddenly uncomfortably aware of himself. “Shut up!”
“That’s not very nice…” Mommy lets out a warning as she opens up the refrigerator door.
“Sorry…” your brother says, deeply remorseful for as long as it takes him to notice his syrup drenched hands. He sticks his fingers in his mouth one at a time, licking them clean. Next time maybe you’ll get syrup and sausages for breakfast instead. It looks fun.
“How about some honeyed mead?” Mommy suggests. She turns around with two baby bottles filled with the ambered colored stuff.
“Yes, please!” you both say.
She stands between your chairs and hands each of you a bottles. You put the rubber nipple to your lips and start sipping the mead down. It goes down smooth and easy, the slight burn in the back of your throat no worse than coca-cola. This is better than regular old mead. It is practically the nectar of the gods to your baby brain.
“Good girl!” Daddy praises you and pats you on the head. “Such a good drinker. You’re getting sooooo biiiiig!” The way Daddy says it makes you sure that he is fibbing in the best way possible. The way Daddy says it is the way that adults say it to small children. It’s a compliment, but not at all a fact.
“Yes she is, Daddy.” Mommy agrees. “I think we have the biggest, most precious little girl in the whooooole world. She’s such a good eater.”
“Such a good eater,” Daddy agrees.
They give similar praise to Brother, too. But you were first. That’s a good feeling. You keep the bottle up and continue drinking. Your head starts to feel nice and fuzzy, and it’s not just because of the alcohol content. Your diaper warms up beneath you. Wet, but not too wet.
Three fourths of the way through, you and Brother make eye contact with one another. A silent agreement is made and you two start chugging away to the finish line. You pull harder and drink faster, purposefully trying to gulp everything down. Why? No reason. You just want to win.
“Done!” Brother says, putting the bottle down. His burps come out like tiny firework pops.
“Good job!” Daddy cheers him. He seems incredibly proud of himself.
Three seconds later you put down your bottle. Disappointing. Maybe next time. The warm glow rising to your face is nice, though. At least you’re getting tipsy.
Daddy clears your trays away and Mommy picks you up.. “Come on,”she says and starts patting you on the back. “Give Mommy a burp.” The patting briefly turns to pounding. “Big burpies for Mommy…big burpies…”
“UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURP!” The belch is practically a roar.
“Good girl!” Mommy cheers.
Still in his highchair, Brother stares. “Whoah…” he quietly says to himself. He then starts cackling like he’s just gotten off a roller coast and is riding the adrenaline high.
Brother joins you, riding on Daddy’s hip, and both of you are out of the kitchen and on the carpet before you know it. You try to stand, and fall before you can get your feet underneath you. Silly giggles come out of you. The world is wobbly and you like it.
You’re a crawler. A cruiser at best. Brother stands and falls directly on his butt a second later. He thinks it’s hilarious. So do you. You’re both laughing so hard that you are positive neither of you are dry. Another lovely trickle between your legs reminds you that you already passed that point at breakfast. It just came so naturally that you’d forgotten. The difference between wet and dry feels so arbitrary right now.
But you’re just a baby. Why wouldn’t it?
Mommy and Daddy turn on the T.V. and an enchanting cartoon fills the screen. It is still very difficult to pay attention to.
“I’m going to jingle some things,” you say, crawling over to your favorite floor gym. No one replies. Mommy is on the couch reading a book. Daddy is in his favorite chair looking at his phone. Brother is on all fours building a railroad out of wood tracks.
You lay down, roll and scoot beneath the gym’s canopy. You reach up and bat at the dangling jingle dolls, exulting in the sounds they make and the variety of textures surrounding you. Your cat finds you and starts giving you tiny chilly nosed nuzzle kisses right there on your forehead.
“Quit it,” you fib, shoving her away. It’s a fib because you don’t want her to quit it. You don’t want any of this to stop.
You’re home. You’re finally home.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, the perspective flips. Voices in your mind tell you that this isn’t real. This is just a dream. That’s why everything is playing out so perfectly. That’s why you know things without knowing how. Just silly, stupid dream logic.
Any moment, you’re going to wake up, and this will all be over.
The spell you cast while Mommy was stroking your hair has come undone.
The thoughts increase. You shouldn’t want this. You’re an adult. Not a baby. And wanting to be a baby is wrong. You’ve always wanted this, but that doesn’t make it any more natural or right. There is something wrong with you. You’re broken.
“Baby girl?” Mommy gets your attention.”What’s wrong?”
You withdraw inside yourself. “Nothing,” you tell her. The silly figment of your diseased imagination won’t understand anyways.
“No.” Mommy says. “Stop that at once, little girl.”
“What’s going on?” Daddy looks up from his phone. He locks eyes with you and instantly he knows. “Oh, Princess. That’s not true.”
“What’s wrong?” Brother asks, looking up from the trains. “What happened? What’s-?”
You slam your hands on the side of your head and screech to keep yourself from bursting into tears. “I’m not a baby!” you yell. “I’m not! I’m just not! I’m. Just. Not.” Every word feels like you’re cutting yourself with a razor blade.
Brother hangs his head. “I’m not either.” It doesn’t sound playful and silly like it did before. Just sad and pathetic. You’re sad and pathetic.
“Who decided that?”
You look at Mommy. “What?”
“Who decided that?” she asks again. She slides off the couch and sidles up next to you just underneath the baby gym. “By what agreement or authority are you not my baby?”
You frown. “I don’t know. I’m just…not…? I’m too old.”
“Did you decide that, Princess?” Daddy asks. “Is that what you’re telling us?” He takes a seat near your head and crosses his legs. You can’t see him, but you hear your new/old Brother crinkling around on the floor. You finally see him when he crawls into Daddy’s lap. Both of you are doing your best not to cry.
“No,” you say. “I didn’t decide!” The idea that you’d want to be an adult feels more repellent to you than the thought of you actually being one. “I didn’t decide! I promise!” Your heart is pounding beneath your silken onesie.
“Then why aren’t you a baby?” Brother asks. He’s not just talking about you, and you both know it. There’s too much desperation in his throat.
You meet it in equal measure with loneliness and self-loathing. “I shouldn’t want to be a baby.”
“Who decided that?” Mommy repeats herself. “What’s so wrong with being a baby?”
What was wrong? Nothing! You’ve fantasized about this for as long as you can remember. This is perfect. This is lovely. This is safe. Everytime you imagine your best self, it’s been exactly like this. You with a family that loved you and took care of you and played with you and wanted you exactly as how you were on the inside
Life just hadn’t turned out that way. That’s not how it worked.
“Who decided that?” Daddy says, also reading your thoughts. “Why can’t it be how it works?”
You try to roll over and turn yourself away from them. Mommy reaches over and stops you. She pins you down so that you stay on your back, looking up at your family. “Poor baby,” Mommy says. “You’re hurting so much but you don’t need to. You just don’t understand yourself.”
“Why would they?” Daddy says softly. “They’re just babies.”
“This is just a stupid dream…” you mutter, as tears threaten.
Brother lets out a sob of agreement. “Yup.”
Mommy and Daddy look at each other. “The talk?” Mommy asks. Daddy nods.
Mommy sits up and takes you with her. She pulls you into her lap. You don’t resist. Dream or not you want to be held and comforted.
“Do you know what a changeling is?” Mommy asks.
Some kind of play on words to deflect starts to bubble up in your brain. Something about diapers, since they get changed all the time. Mommy and Daddy laugh before you can open your mouth to say it.
“No dear,” Daddy says. “That’s not what the word means.”
“What does it mean?” You hear Brother ask.
“When a Mommy Fae and a Daddy Fae love each other very much,” Daddy explains. “They um…err…how should I put this?”
“What they do isn’t as important,” Mommy interrupts. “But at the end, a special piece of them splits off and leaves this place and then goes into a human lady’s tummy and mixes with the human lady’s baby.”
“Where’s this place?” you interrupt.
“Dreams.” Daddy says, like that answers it. It kind of does. “Just because a place is a dream doesn’t mean it’s not real. Not for our people.”
“Our…?” Brother starts to ask.
“The point is, baby boy and baby girl,” Mommy starts again. “When that baby is born, something wonderful happens. They aren’t an ordinary baby. They’re a changeling. One of ours. But time moves differently in Dreams than it does elsewhere. Those special boys and girls can spend their whole lives without knowing what they really are.”
“But they always know that there’s something different about them,” Daddy adds. “They feel it inside them. The world they were born into doesn’t match the world that they came from.” He gives Brother a hug. Mommy does the same to you. “Feel familiar, Buddy? Sound about right, Princess?”
It does. It really does.
“Time moves so differently between the worlds,” Mommy continues, “that by the time they’re found, most changelings think they’ve grown up. They’ve had to trick themselves in order to survive the human world.”
“But they’re not,” Daddy says. “And when their Mommies and Daddies find them, if they find them, they bring them back home safe and sound and they wake up here with us.”
You’ve been abducted. You’ve been brought home. You’ve been saved. “We’re Fae?” you wonder.
“No silly,” Mommy grins. “You’re fae.” You can hear the difference, but you don’t understand it at all.
Brother looks both amazed and sad. “We’re going to grow up into you?” You understand exactly why. The thrill of being something strange and unusual yet wonderful is outweighed by pure anxiety. You already had to grow up at once. Now you have to do it all over again?
Mommy leans forward and gives him a kiss on the forehead. Then you on your cheek. “Not at all. You’re too little to grow up.”
“I’m just as big as you,” you say to Mommy. The terrible, logical, adult voices of teachers, and parents, and co-workers demand to be heard.
“Not that kind of big.” Mommy says. “And I know you understand the difference between age and bigness. No excuses.”
“Yes, Mommy,” you say, and feel slightly happier than you did.
“You are as you were meant to be,” Daddy tells you. “You are not an investment. You are not heirs or pets or servants. You are not a stage or a phase that you will grow out of.”
“ It didn’t work there, and it won’t work here,” Mommy says.
“Promise?” You ask.
“Promise,” They both say in unison.
“What if I wake up?” You ask.
“You’re not dreaming,” Daddy says. “You’re in Dreams.” That’s all he needs to do to explain it.
“What if…” Brother struggles. “What if I forget?”
You know exactly what he’s talking about. This is all wonderful. It doesn’t mean that the voices from a lifetime of cognitive dissonance and denied purpose are going to go away. They might never go away. It was habit; second nature even. Like potty training but worse.
“If you forget?” Mommy answers. “We’ll remind you. Both of you.”
“For how long?” You ask. “How often? When will you get tired?” Everyone else back there got tired of you eventually. They would too.
“I think you’re underestimating how much we love each other and you,” Daddy replies.
That didn’t answer the question. This was a trick. Fae were tricksters. There was power only in words for them. “We will remind you as often as you want it and often as you need it. Forever and ever. And you will always be loved.”
“Promise?” You say again.
“Promise,” they say.
Finally, you start to cry. “Thank you. Thank you so much! I’m sorry! Thank you! Thank you! I love you!” You turn around and bury your head in Mommy’s chest. She hugs you just as hard as you hug her. A crinkle from behind and Brother is hugging you and Mommy both. Daddy can’t encircle all three of you in his arms but he feels darn close.
You all stay like that for a long time. You and your new/old sibling crying happy tears together, alternating silly declarations of love for everyone, thanking them for said love, and then apologizing because you literally don’t know what else to say and haven’t kicked the shame habit yet. Mommy and Daddy just keep hugging you and telling you that everything is alright, and will always be alright.
Even through your tears and blubbering and bawling, you can now foresee a different kind of future for yourself. One you never thought possible. By the end of the hour, you know, you’ll be back on the playmat, giggling and laughing. Teasing and begging for attention like this never happened.
You’ll get in fights with Brother, today but they won’t be close to real fights. More like arguments on who is going to get Mommy’s milk first. You’ll win of course. Not because you’re her favorite (though you’re pretty sure you are) but because it’s good manners to let ladies go first. You’ll take turns, of course. You won’t go first every time.
From there the thoughts just tumble into a thousand little adventures and experiences. Daddy, Mommy, and Brother will be there beside you in differing combinations, but you’ll never be alone, even in the times where you’re left by yourself.
All that anxiety, despair, and crying. That constant feeling of the world being wrong. That was the real dream. It was the fae version of falling or running through molasses while the bogey man chases you.
All your life you’ve been dreaming, little changeling.
You’ve just finally managed to wake up.
The End that is also a Beginning
Epilogue:. Though yes, you probably will need another diaper sooner than you thought. That mead is going right through you!
Comments
Mission accomplished
Goodness this just gives me all the warm fuzzy feelings 🥹💜
I liked writing this one. This was actually the final of several drafts.
Pelo Dee
Gosh, that was sweet from start to finish. The sweet baby feelings and the reassuring affirmation. I'd point to this whenever someone will ask me to define "adult baby". ❤️
