“Hansel reached up above, and broke off a little of the roof to try how it tasted, and Gretel leant against the window and nibbled at the panes.
Suddenly the door opened, and a woman as old as the hills…came creeping out. "Oh, you dear children, who has brought you here? Do come in, and stay with me. No harm shall happen to you." She took them both by the hand, and led them into her little house. Then good food was set before them, milk and pancakes, with sugar, apples, and nuts. Afterwards two pretty little beds were covered with clean white linen, and Hansel and Gretel lay down in them, and thought they were in heaven.
–Hansel & Gretel, by The Grimm Brothers. English Translation by Margaret Hunt
It was during a bedtime retelling of Hansel & Gretel when I realized…mother’s are conspicuously absent from Fairy Tales. Sleeping Beauty is raised by fairies, Cinderella lives with her horrid stepmother, Snow White is left with the wicked-mirror witch, and, of course, Hansel and Gretel’s mother has mysteriously disappeared and left them a nightmare of a woman—a wife who convinces their father to abandon his children in the middle of the woods.
I have a theory about this.
I think these mothers ARE in the story. Not in the background, or as heavenly apparitions in whimsical dreams. They are the wicked witches. I know this because I am one.
I didn’t start off to become a wicked witch. In fact, I once planned on being a perfect princess, and had high expectations for my royal offspring. I would speak to them only in angelic, singing tones. I would lead them joyfully in educational activities within the walls of our immaculately decorated castle, and would gleefully feed them regularly scheduled, green-colored vegetables three times a day.
My transformation from noblewoman to wart-nosed crone is chronicled in the story of Hansel and Gretel. It begins when my firstborn is six months old, and I find that I have an uncontrollable desire to eat him up. This, apparently, is the first stage of witchiness: a desire to eat little children, and I get a bad case of it. My little one is too cute. Absolutely edible. He has cast a spell over me, and I hypnotically forget about feeding him vegetables, and find much more joy baking cupcakes and cookies for him. This is the second stage of witch-hood: the desire to fatten up my babes.
As more children arrive, I complete my transformation into a wicked witch. I give up my dream of a pristine castle in favor of a charming little gingerbread cottage—which is perfectly child-proofed, and fantastically kid-friendly. Color-coordinated decorations come down, and homemade popcorn strings & peppermint ropes line the house. I stock up on Valentine candy, buy the biggest chocolate bunnies for Easter, and pride myself in the best treats for Halloween. So much for green vegetables.
The days fly by, and I begin to realize how much I have to teach these little ones. I fire up the oven and show them how to cook Grandma’s best oatmeal cookies. I pull out the knitting needles and attempt a sewing lesson or two. Together, we venture into the world that lies outside our front door and explore it with wide-eyed excitement.
Some days are less magical. After all, I am a wicked witch. When the cottage needs tidying, I work my children to the bone. I relax in my licorice rocking chair as they sweep. I brew a kettle of tea as they scrub their soiled frocks by hand. I cackle as they mop the muddy floors. A little girl in my care sometimes screams that I am the “meanest, most terrible witch in the world.” I tell her to get cleaning, or I’ll put her in her in the bedroom for a good, old-fashioned time-out, and lick a lollipop as I await her punishment to be complete. She will tell you…I am a very wicked witch.
During these days, I fear my fingers will become permanently crooked, and my voice will always call out cruel orders (like put your dirty dishes in the sink, or make your bed). Though, as the day closes, I remember how delicious that little girl is. I tuck her into her little wooden bed, and soothe her to sleep with a song. We witches work hard to keep little children around until the time comes when they are plumped and ready for the outside world. I’d like to keep this one around a bit longer.
I suppose whether I like it or not, the day will come when my children will find a way to sneak away from me. That seems to be the familiar chant from the old witches, “Enjoy them while they are little, they grow up too fast.”
I sit back at the dinner table, and silently observe their fat fingers reaching for slimy cups of chocolate milk, or wiping spaghetti stains on their frilly white smocks—uh, I mean, mud-covered t-shirts. I walk quietly behind them as we head into our enchanted forest for an afternoon walk, and wonder why an old witch like me can’t cast a spell to make time pass just a bit more slowly. I capture the funny faces, silly phrases, and fleeting kisses and hold them in my hand—a broom that sweeps away some sadness, for I weep when I realize that these moments will be gone so soon.
After all, I’ve read the story. I know Hansel and Gretel soon escape the gingerbread cottage, and cook up the wicked witch. She is pulled out of the oven by some passerby, a crisp wafer cookie, baked to perfection.
I know my fate is sealed. Once all the cooking, and cleaning, and teaching is done, my children will leave me for adventures of their own, taking the memories we’ve made as a guide for their new paths. And, you know, I think I can live with that. After all, they learned to bake cookies to perfection, and I’ll be a sweet, gingerbread sort of memory—which is much better than those green-colored vegetable ones from my once-upon-a-time princess days.
And so, off to tend to my captives, I hear them nibbling at the house. Perhaps, I will spend the afternoon nibbling on them. After all, wicked witches do so like to eat little children…especially their own.
~Sister McLay
