Extra-Curricular Complications

Last Friday, The Council Man returned. He had with him a copy of the plans of our build, and when he arrived, he spent about ten minutes looking from them to the new roof structure, with an ever more confused look on his face.
Oh dear, thought I, my already pounding heart now hammering out of my chest. What is wrong? Do we have to take it down? Start again? Please don’t tell me that! I don’t think any of us could face it.
But after a while, and after he had explained himself, the terror passed. With a few corrections to the plans and a tweak here and there, The Council Man seemed satisfied. And now, we can order The Great Glass Doors!
Big Seymour is happy with the progress he has made, too. He and Supergran have fitted the soffits and fascias this weekend, and put the Tyvek and battens on, too. Our new, pretty flat roof is really taking shape.
As far as the Four Little Seymours are concerned, however, progress is slower. After a tricky week with Boy Seymour, we intended to start the weekend on a positive note. I took Number Two on a little run on Saturday morning – after all, isn’t that the sort of thing normal families do at the weekend? She hurt her leg. I doubt she’ll come again.
Next, we tried to get the homework underway. I can’t abide Sunday night school-related stress – this is our way of avoiding it. But there is always resistance! Without fail, there are arguments. X 4. Squared.
By lunchtime, though, Boy Seymour was creating a Roman-style mosaic with the help of Number One – it was almost harmonious. Leaving them to it, I tried to dispatch the remains of the old flat roof by having an enormous bonfire, whilst taking care not the cremate The Shed.
There was cake baking in the afternoon. Little Seymour Number two was whisked off to a friend’s house, and on Sunday, Boy Seymour hopped over the fence to play with The Kid Next Door.

But here’s my current concern: do my children do enough? Or, as a result of our choice to renovate The Funny Little Bungalow, are they confined to a life of restrictions? Of boredom? Of financial pressure?

You see, at the moment, we don’t really have family days out. We are at home, trying to chip away at this gargantuan task. The Four Little Seymours help out sometimes – where possible. But when they can’t, they are often found role-playing in the dilapidated summer house for hours on end, or unearthing all their lost toys in the  derelict shell of our old home. They like to “pamper” the guinea pigs, or pull bits of wood up and down the garden with the ride-on toys. When I am not looking, they steal the old iPad and look up banal subtitled cartoons. Little Seymour Number One bakes a lot. But inevitably, I feel guilty. Should we be at Chessington instead? Or the cinema? Must I acquire a National Trust membership? Do I need to become a member of the local soft play facility..?

By and large, I think they’re happy enough. They do Brownies, Cubs and Guides. We have tried no end of dancing lessons in days gone by – chased about all over the place and paid a small fortune to discover that it’s a competitive and judgemental world out there, and not everybody fits in. I always feel this guilt in September, when the new term starts. I must find my children’s talent, I say. I must give them opportunities. So, in the last few weeks I have:

Enquired about piano lessons, dance lessons and a gymnastics tryout for Little Seymour Number Two. 

Ditto – guitar lessons for Boy Seymour, along with Kayak School.

Enquired about tennis for Mini Seymour. 

Contemplated offering up Number One to the local geriatric’s day centre so that she can work in their kitchen.

The gymnastics trial went OK, but as far as I could see, it was a machine – too many kids, totally impersonal, and really rather expensive. Not for us, thank you.

Little Seymour Number One has already gone through the motions. She has done ballet, modern dance, street dance, musical theatre, tap and judo. She’s thirteen now, and with all of her homework, school clubs and her annual school production, she’s pretty busy really. Maybe all of those classes she did were good for her, or maybe they were simply a waste of time and money…

Having Four Little Seymours and a limited budget does make me wonder if we’ve been fair to them. Shouldn’t Mini Seymour be allowed to try all those experiences like her Big Sister did before her? Should we give in to the money-making gymnastics machine and sign Number Two up regardless? Or must I accept that our circumstances are a bit different now, and be more selective?

I doubt any of my children will go on the be Olympians – don’t get me wrong, I have high hopes for them. But none of them seem to be hugely competitive. And as for Boy Seymour – his wonky little legs might hinder his sporting prowess.
But I can’t get away from that horrible parent guilt. I feel it particularly badly at the moment, because Boy Seymour is playing up. It must be our fault. What have we done wrong? Is it because he is deprived in some way? Neglected? Bored? Is it because we live on a building site..? I don’t have the answers. I wish I did.

For now, though, this is our life. I think, really , we are very lucky. The Four Little Seymours may not excel in sports, but they certainly know how to rough it – now that’s a skill! They’re excellent at jumbling (yes, “to jumble” is a verb). And at bidding in auctions – a rare skill in a seven year-old. And how many kids get to make pseudo-Roman mosaics out of the rubble pile from their tumbledown house?

Normality beckons – with the impending  arrival of The Great Glass Doors, we are inching ever closer. But I must be careful not to set too much store by normality – whatever that is. Life is uncertain, whether you have a roof or not. Of all the lessons living in The Shed has taught us during this building project with an undefined end date, it is to live for now. To have patience, and try to work day-to-day, and not worry too much about the future.
And if someone could just put Donald Trump in his place, I would personally find that much easier to achieve. :-0