There’s a member of JLS naked in my garden. I’m not sure whether it’s JB or Oritse. It’s certainly not Aston. He’s too tall. I think it might have something to do with the Barbie pool party that Mini Seymour held in the Radio Flyer at the weekend, which was obviously a raucous, semi-hedonistic event.
Which brings me to the question: “Why do the Four Little Seymours never tidy their stuff away?” I mean, seriously! They are dreadful at it.
There is a summer house in the garden which I have reassigned as The Play Room. This just means that it is full of the kids’ cr@p. There’s no room in The Shed, and this seemed like the best solution. But if I have tidied that flippin’ thing up once, I’ve done it umpteen times, only to see that they’ve trashed it again, five minutes later.
I know they have a lot of stuff. I know that we’ll need to avoid jumble sales when the Jumbling Season recommences in the autumn. But I do not know why they cannot simply put their stuff away? How hard is it? And, I might ask, what else have they got to do? Nada.
Don’t get me wrong, I like it when they play with their toys, which is why I have a conundrum over all this. Do I embrace the mess and accept that I have to be mainly responsible for tidying up, safe in the knowledge that they’ve used actual toys rather than just electronic devices for a time? Or do I insist that they do it? We have many discussions, pre-game: “Yes, you can play “cutting and sticking tiny bits of paper and strewing them all over the garden” if you like, but do you promise to tidy it up afterwards?”
They promise to tidy it up afterwards.
Then they don’t, because they’re tired and they’ve found the electronic devices, and it’s down to me to decide whether a) I have The Argument, which I will win eventually but will take a lot out of me, or b) I just flippin’ do it myself. It’s that old adage, “pick your battles”. And how I pick them very much depends on what mood I’m in, or if I’ve had wine.
I’m inconsistent. To be fair to the Four Little Seymours, they’ve probably received mixed messages. There have been occasions when I’ve just turned a blind eye at the state of their bedroom because we’ve had a “play date” and I’ve wanted all the kids to have SUCH A GREAT TIME that I’ve been all free and easy over the state of the room as things fly out from cupboards and even the knickers are out of the drawer and all over the floor. “Oh, don’t worry! I grin. I say “It’s fine! It’s always good to find out what’s in there!” Then valiantly refuse the parent’s offer of help as they leave, telling them it’ll take me five minutes, and I mean it, because the kids have had SUCH A GREAT TIME, and it was worth it, but then cry into the mountain of dressing up clothes that are not only now everywhere but also covered in custard cream juice and other mis-placed fluids.
Toddler play dates are, sadly, in our past. Certainly, the Funny Little Bungalow isn’t in a fit state to host any, and when it is, the children will be bigger. Now, on the occasions when the small Seymours have friends over, with the house roofless and the toys in the summer house, it doesn’t really matter too much if they make a mess.
BUT… that’s not the point. I must try to teach them to respect their stuff. They’re old enough to do that, surely? And besides, if things are left out now, they’ll get rained on.
I got cross on Sunday. I had spent time clearing up all the random things that were dotted around the garden. It was late afternoon, and the day was drawing to a close. I could not believe it when, rejuvenated by their dinner, all Four Little Seymours merrily started unpacking the summer house. The Thomas the Tank engine tent was out, the plastic spades joined him. A blanket that I’d folded was now being sat on behind the trees, and the scooters had also been unearthed. All this in two and a half minutes! And on a Sunday Night!
I raged. I swore a bit. I was grumpy. And then as they all sat down to play a lovely game of something a bit X Factor-y involving auditions on the decking, the guilt crept in.
I read an article the other day about what “chores” children of a certain age should be doing. It made me cringe, actually. The Four Little Seymours are way off the mark. They’re not entirely unhelpful – they just need reminding.
But under the circumstances, they’re doing OK. And last night, as Big Seymour and I wheeled the last of the Tesco delivery down the rain-soaked garden to The Shed in two barrows, Little Seymour Number One was carefully putting everything away.
Patience is a virtue – one that we are having to implement a lot at the moment. Nothing round here is going to be streamlined any time soon. I will encourage the Four Little Seymours to be more helpful with jobs, because it’s good for them to learn such things. But, if the odd toy is left out, I refuse to get angry any more. Life is just too bloomin’ short.
And besides, I’m not averse to naked boybanders in my garden, be they dolls or otherwise. I’d miss them if they were gone. 
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