But even in paradise, toddlers wake hungry.
And hunger—paired with stubbornness—was a recipe for disaster.
The Breakfast Battle
When my daughter sat up, her hair wild and her bunny still clutched tight, I offered her a simple breakfast: sliced pears and soft bread, courtesy of a kind fairy neighbor.
She took one look, wrinkled her nose, and declared, “No.”
It was her first real “no,” drawn out and firm, as if she had just discovered the word’s power.
I tried again, sweetening my voice. “Come on, sweetheart, just one bite.”
She pushed the plate away with dramatic flair. “NO.”
Behind me, I heard the inevitable sound of pixies giggling.
Enter the Pixies
“We heard there’s a breakfast rebellion!” Tiddle announced, swooping down like a commander arriving on the battlefield. His crooked acorn crown had been replaced by what looked like a pancake hat.
Sprank carried a basket overflowing with strange glowing vegetables. “Fear not, weary mother! The Picky Pixie Picnic is here to save the day!”
Nib staggered in with a pot that sloshed and hissed ominously. “And I made soup!”
I groaned. “Absolutely not. No pixie soup at breakfast.”
My daughter perked up at the word “picnic,” her eyes sparkling. “Picnic! Outside!”
Traitor.
Dancing Food
Sprank clapped his hands, and suddenly the pears and bread lifted into the air. They sprouted little faces, sprigs of grass for arms, and began to dance.
“See?” Sprank beamed. “Food is fun when it performs!”
My daughter shrieked with delight, clapping along. The bread loaves shuffled like tiny soldiers while the pear slices twirled like ballerinas.
I tried to keep my cool. “She’s supposed to eat them, not invite them to audition for the Faerie Ballet.”
Tiddle puffed out his chest. “All part of the plan! She’ll love them so much, she’ll gobble them up!”
Instead, my daughter toddled after the dancing pears, trying to hug them. They squealed, scattering across the moss, diving under mushrooms for safety.
So much for breakfast.
The Soup Incident
Meanwhile, Nib lifted the lid off his pot. Steam swirled upward, sparkling oddly. The scent hit me like a slap: a bizarre mix of cinnamon, garlic, and wet socks.
“What,” I asked flatly, “is in that?”
Nib grinned proudly. “Everything! A little of this, a little of that. It’s got all the food groups: sweet, salty, spicy, and… surprise!”
The soup burbled and spat. A bubble burst, releasing a small flock of floating carrots. They squeaked indignantly and zoomed around like dragonflies.
My daughter squealed again, chasing the airborne vegetables. “BUNNY FOOD!” she cried, waving her stuffed bunny in encouragement.
The Bedtime Beast lifted its massive head, eyes following the flying carrots with deep interest. It licked its lips.
“No, no, no!” I shouted, lunging forward. “We are not feeding the Beast surprise soup!”
Maribelle Intervenes
Just when the chaos reached boiling point (literally—the soup pot was starting to glow), Maribelle appeared, serene as always. She landed gracefully, her gown of mist billowing around her like calm in physical form.
“Pixies,” she said in her velvet-firm voice, “did we not discuss ‘quiet encouragement’?”
Tiddle shuffled. Sprank whistled innocently. Nib tried to hide the pot behind his back.
Maribelle sighed and handed me a small vial filled with golden liquid. “Hunger Honey,” she explained. “One drop makes food irresistible. Works only on children, mind you.”
I blinked at her. “Why didn’t you give me this yesterday?”
“You didn’t ask.” She smiled knowingly.
Victory at Last
I drizzled a single drop over the pears and bread. The moment my daughter spotted them, her eyes widened.
“Snack!” she cried, grabbing them eagerly. She stuffed a pear slice into her mouth, followed by a bite of bread, chewing with blissful determination.
The pixies gasped, as though witnessing a miracle. “She eats!” Tiddle declared dramatically, wiping a fake tear.
The flying carrots, meanwhile, settled gently onto the moss. My daughter scooped one up and hugged it, announcing proudly, “Mine.”
I decided not to argue.
The Bedtime Beast, disappointed at being denied soup, curled back down beside the blanket with a low grumble. At least it didn’t glow this time.
Mother’s Reflection
Later, as my daughter toddled off to play, crumbs on her cheeks and a carrot tucked under her arm like a pet, I reflected on the madness of the morning.
Yes, breakfast had involved dancing pears, airborne vegetables, and soup that smelled like bad decisions. Yes, the pixies had once again turned a simple task into a circus.
But in the end, she had eaten. She was happy. And somewhere in the laughter and chaos, I’d found joy too.
Parenting here was never easy, but maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Maybe it was meant to be messy, magical, and full of unexpected victories.
The Hint of Tomorrow
Just as I exhaled, thinking the morning’s battle was over, my daughter tugged at my sleeve. Her eyes were wide, pointing toward the forest path.
“Market!” she chirped. “Pretty shiny!”
The pixies perked up instantly. “The Faerie Market?” Tiddle gasped. “Oh, the wonders! The bargains! The chaos!”
Maribelle’s face tightened. “The Market is no place for the unprepared.”
I swallowed.
Tomorrow, it seemed, we’d be braving the Faerie Market itself.
Heaven help me.
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