At some point in your life, there came a time when you had to watch and be responsible for a tiny human. Sweet angels while they slumber, but absolute tricksters the moment they wake. Turns out, that isn’t a new phenomenon. There’s a story in the Homeric Hymn to Hermes that starts in a way that almost feels unbelievable, even for mythology. Hermes is born at dawn… and by midday, he’s already out in the world causing problems in the craziest of ways. Honestly, it’s impressive for a baby, even a godly one.

Upon opening his brand new eyes, he doesn’t stay in his cradle for long. Within hours, he slips out (seriously, where is his mother?), wanders off, and comes across a herd of cattle that belong to Apollo. Now, Apollo isn’t just anyone—he’s already an established Olympian, associated with order, music, prophecy, healing, all of those very structured domains. And he loves his cattle. No one is supposed to touch them without risking Apollo’s wrath. Hermes, on the other hand, has just arrived on the scene and is clearly ready to shake things up. Instead of reaching out to his big brother or even announcing himself, he decides to take the cattle. Remember—he’s a baby. A very informed baby. Where did he even hear about Apollo or these sacred cows?

What makes this story even better isn’t just the theft. It’s how he does it. Hermes drives the cattle backward so their tracks are reversed, making it look like they’re heading back toward the old pasture instead of away from it. He even crafts sandals for himself to disguise his own footprints. I’m not sure I would be prepared for a baby with that level of planning. There’s intention in every step, not chaos. He’s already thinking about movement, misdirection, and how to navigate a situation without being easily followed.

On his way back, he pauses long enough to do something else entirely… because why not? He comes across a tortoise and, instead of ignoring it, turns its shell into the first lyre—a small, harp-like instrument. What happened to the tortoise is… a separate conversation. This moment stands out, though, because in the middle of all this cleverness and rule-breaking, he creates something beautiful. Something that will eventually matter more than the theft itself.

Of course, Apollo notices the missing cattle and is absolutely furious. Finally discovering the culprit, he confronts Hermes, which had to be a sight. A powerful grown god facing off with a wily little baby still in diapers and homemade sandals. The expectation would have been punishment or escalation. Hermes was, after all, a newborn who had just stolen from a god. Instead of doubling down, playing the cute baby card, or trying to escape, Hermes shifts the entire interaction. He offers the lyre as a gift to the god of music. Apollo, recognizing its value, accepts it, and just like that, the situation changes. Hermes isn’t cast out or punished—he’s acknowledged.

This story isn’t just about trickery for its own sake. It’s about movement between states. Hermes goes from infant to active participant in a single day. From thief to negotiator. From conflict into relationship. That fluidity becomes the foundation of his identity.