We are privileged to have access to two vehicles, the Four Little Seymours and I.
First, there’s Minty, my blue Polo. He is nice and small, and suitable for short journeys, and anything involving tight parking spaces. But his radio is kaput.
Then, there’s The Shiny Van. She is rather sleek and pretty, and I am forever scared of damaging her. She’s not as shiny as she once was – mainly because I get very bored cleaning cars, and find myself weeding the driveway instead. But The Shiny Van is shinier than Minty, at any rate.
Yes, they both have their merits.
But they also both have one huge problem. Each vehicle (like most vehicles, in fact) only has two seats in the front.
Now, it stands to reason, does it not, that one of the front seats should go to an adult. An adult with a driving licence, perhaps? And then, should there be an absence of additional adults to accompany the driver in the cockpit during the looming journey, it might be permissible for, say, one of the Little Seymours to take that spot.
But not f”*kin@ all of them.
How is it possible – or even contemplatable – that at least two of my children, on every single journey, expect to sit in the front?
There is a hierarchy. When Number One is around, she goes in the front. It’s a given really, as she is adult-sized. And quite useful with the Bluetooth.
Ordinarily, in the absence of Number One, Number Two usually takes the top spot. Owing to her brother’s slow legs and Mini Seymour’s ability to be sidetracked on the long walk up the garden, she usually arrives at the vehicle first, anyway.
Occasionally, on some mornings, this natural order of things is accepted. And, except for the inevitable scooter faff, we board the car with stress levels within the normal range.
But more often than is pleasant, there is a stand-off in the driveway.
Boy Seymour took umbrage the other day. He arrived at Minty, The Little Blue Car first (unusual), and found it locked (also unusual.) Little Seymour Number Two meandered casually up to Minty quietly, and whilst Boy was busy feeling incensed that he couldn’t access the vehicle independently, in she sneaks. Pole position pinched as I popped the key in.
He was not happy. He roared. He seethed. He stomped about and expressed his opinion, which was that he was absolutely entitled to that front seat, no matter what.
He stood by the car, arms folded, bottom lip out, Neanderthal eyebrows knitted, refusing to move.
By this time, I was reversing. Carefully, of course, despite my rising ire. And whilst reversing, I was wondering how far I would get before he wobbled towards the car and tried to get in, and could I, as I was tempted to do, simply drive off without him?
I wanted to. I really did. He was being an utter sod. So what that he thought that seat was his? So what if he got to the car first? I simply cannot add another front seat in to a car. I asked him to get in the back, and into the back he needed to get. All my fairness and reasoning skills could wait; we were going to be late for school.
On reflection, I decided that I could not simply drive off. That action would have been followed by a day of what-ifs and self-accusations of poor parenting. Imagine if he’d ended up squashed on the A281 because I drove off in a temper! No. Instead, I stopped reversing and hollered at him to get in – which luckily worked.
And off we set. Without even a radio to reduce the blood pressure with music.
That was Monday.
On Tuesday, we had the flinging of the booster seats, and some wailing associated with stolen stickers from one of those bleedin’ Fit For Life booklets.
On Wednesday, the car was full of gardening tools that Boy Seymour seemed hell-bent on sending through the windscreen from his sub-standard seat in the back.
And today, the tables were turned.
I shook things up a bit. Instead of Minty, we were going to take The Shiny Van for a change. My recent fix of one of Minty’s indicators hasn’t stood the test of time, and so, it needs looking at before we venture out in him again.
But oh! The kerfuffle this caused! Little Seymour Number Two had made her way to Minty (unlocked this time), and got her seat ready. She cleared the wing mirror for me, and wound down the window in readiness for the off. (Yes, autumnal condensation has started to be a problem already). But alas, Minty was not the steed of choice. And before Number Two could retrieve her bag from the blue car’s footwell, Boy had installed himself in the front seat of The Shiny Van, smug as you like.
The vehemence with which this was received was astronomical.
Sometimes, during these arguments, I shout at them. Sometimes I scream to myself. I often sing “Joyful, Joyful” through gritted teeth as an alternative to shouting, and I have been known to simply lie down on the driveway and close my eyes until peace reigns.
To be quite honest, I don’t know where they get their energy from. Bickering is hard work! And by the time we leave the premises most days, I am exhausted. I point out to them every time that they could be packed on a train in Jaipur or squeezed into the hold of a lorry if their fortunes had been different, and surely a seat – any seat, is better than none, if you are travelling anywhere further than you can walk.
But my moral lectures always fall on deaf ears. The offended child has too much steam coming out of their ears to hear me. And the one in the front’s too busy gloating to care.
To add to the fun, last week, much to Big Seymour’s disgust, I picked up some horse manure for the garden. The Shiny Van, not being as shiny as it once was, seemed an acceptable vessel in which to transport the stuff.
Upon opening the boot to unload the manure, I screamed. There was a mouse staring at me. Presumably it had been living in the bag of poo, and was rudely relocated to The Funny Little Bungalow whether it liked it or not. There followed a comedy sketch, as Big Seymour, Boy and I tried to lure the rodent out of the van by yelling and grabbing at it, before it could take up residence behind a panel.
Life’s never dull round here.
0 Comments