Sweets

On Monday, I did a terrible thing.
A thing so heinous, that I cringed and cowered as the effects of my actions reverberated around me, and I tried to melt into invisibility.
It was Boy Seymour’s birthday at the start of the week. He is now eight, and infinitely more mature than he was on Sunday. Or so I hope.
Now, ordinarily, when it comes to birthdays, I don’t see why they shouldn’t be like any other day, especially if said birthday falls during term time. I am ashamed to say that I dread the constant appearance of sweeties in my kiddies’ hands as they excitedly declare that it is someone’s special day (they often can’t remember exactly whose, but that’s not the point, apparently); we then have tears because the other Little Seymours don’t have any goodies, and protests because I decree that the sweets be saved until after dinner.
“What is for dinner?” Is the question that usually follows, as if that is in some way is relevant to the treats in their hand.
I declare that I don’t know, as dinner is at least two and half hours away, and I’m in the playground, not the kitchen, hence I do not yet know what concoction I can cleverly create out of the dregs we possess. More protests follow, and we return to the issue at hand – namely, “Can I eat the sweets?”

Items of confectionery – generous gifts from an excited birthday child, sadly metamorphosise into arguments, confrontations, sibling wars and grumpy faces, all because Mummy is on a mission to avoid acid erosion and spoiled brats. (Plus, she is a little bit of a control freak.)

Of course, the problems are all caused by the way I deal with such situations. I am stubborn. It’s not an endearing quality. In my mission to get The Four Little Seymours to eat their dinners over the years, I have withheld snacks. By and large, it ‘s worked, but maybe it’s time to ease up a bit…
You see, on Monday, on Boy Seymour’s birthday, Grandma E had a genius idea. Boy et al have all just started at a new school – a big step, a terrible risk and another story entirely. But what better way to make friends, suggested my wily mother, than to take the MASSIVE tub of Haribo that Boy was given for Christmas, and generously share it out amongst his new class mates? That way, surely, popularity lies? He was keen to go for it, as I have never permitted such hedonism before, and the little chap duly stood at the door of his classroom just after three o’clock and proudly dished out his wares.
It was quite a sweet moment. Until…
A man nearby clocked the sweets in his own child’s hand, and calmly yet exasperatedly exclaimed “More sweets?!”
Yep. My sentiments exactly. To that man, and all others like me, who are a usually bit scroogey when it comes to the willy nilly sweetie fests on far too many days after school, I wholeheartedly apologise.

However… the look on Boy Seymour’s face when he had completed his birthday mission was worth it, and as he wobbled over to offer a packet to the head teacher, (who actually imbibed!), I considered it a job well done.
After all, what with moving schools and living on a building site, a few indulgences here and there might make all the difference. It may be a New Year, but the only resolution I intend to adopt is to stop being quite so uptight about things like Sweets Beyond My Control.

I can do this!

Can’t I?