Getting Four Little Seymours into and out of the house over the years has been a challenge. Logistically, it is tough. I always remember people warning me against having more children than I had hands, and I carried on regardless. Strangely, it was a challenge I relished.
But wrangling toddlers, strapping babies in with cat collars to add a second layer of tamper protection to the seat belt and lugging a buggy into and out of the house or car is nothing – NOTHING! compared to the hell that is leaving the house with teenagers and pre-teenagers.
I give you… Sunday morning.
Remembrance 2021. Reluctant children. As wonderful as they are, the Four Little Seymours did not relish the prospect of the annual march. I remember that feeling, as a former gawky dibdobber myself, and how now, as an adult, I simply cannot understand why I resisted. It is so important to think of all those poor dead young men.
So. I have taken to giving the Seymours a countdown. WE ARE LEAVING IN TWENTY FIVE MINUTES, I declare. In those 25 minutes, I still have to unload the dishwasher, sweep the floor, take fourteen things upstairs, check the taps are off, find a neckerchief and sew a badge on. Not to mention get dressed, do something with my hair and find my keys.
By the time I have searched on Rightmove for a dream house, faffed in the utility room and written three lists, twenty five minutes has been whittled down to five; there are no small Seymours around and I still look like death.
WE ARE LEAVING IN FIVE! I yell. The time for unnecessary nouns has passed. I gather up a handful of items to redistribute around the place, with the intention of making the house less dire to return to, and I find myself walking twice round the kitchen island. I put on shoes -always a good sign of imminent readiness, and then I sit and groan in front of a mirror at the kitchen table and wonder: when will that expensive collagen start to take effect…?
I cover up the worst of the acne and wish away the wrinkles. I yell, WE ARE LEAVING, whilst painfully aware that I am actually still sitting down. A child appears. It cannot find its shoes. They have disappeared. Apparently.
I realise I have left my phone upstairs. Owing to the new carpets, I now have to undo the putting on of the shoes to retrieve said phone, and whist I am upstairs I become distracted by the state of Little Seymour Number Two’s floor. What in the living bejesus has she been doing in there? There are clothes everywhere. Then I become distracted further by the LOL dolls on the book case, and find myself reminiscing about the home-made Sindy house I got for Christmas circa 1983… I check the taps are off.
Oops! Time to go. LAST PERSON OUT – LOCK THE DOOR! I yell. By actually going to the car, I am thereby forcing the Seymours to follow. In theory.
Inevitably, I have the wrong car key. The blue car key is on the blue Fuggler*, the green on the green and so on. I go back to find the right Fuggler, then I sit in the Polo and rev the engine, alone, whilst trapped inside the gates because the gate key is on the house key which is in the door waiting for the last little Seymour to exit.
Boy appears. In his trainers. NO! Go and put your school shoes on. I do not invite debate, and for once, he can tell. Number Two arrives with her shirt untucked – I gloss over that. She has chosen leggings, and ladies, we all know there’s no tucking anything into leggings.
Boy reappears – he is grumpy. He has changed his shoes, but has also popped on a filthy grey beanie which makes him look like a vagrant. I ignore it. For now. I choose my battles.
Minty the Polo is a squash. For once, omnipresent Mini Seymour is not with us. She has gone ahead with Brown Owl to bear a flag, all angelic and tidyish. This morning, she can’t conjure up her usual mischief in the back of the car, which usually involves the devilish elbowing of others, incessant, ear-splitting protestations about needing space, and the sudden, pressing desire for a booster seat which she never needs (funnily enough) when the car is empty enough to accommodate one.
Minty the Polo is on its last legs. The lights are iffy, the indicator is weird. One door doesn’t lock and one won’t open at all. This is problematic due to the arguments it causes when Mini Seymour chooses to climb over people to get out because Boy Seymour has decided he is not quite ready to alight. I have this to look forward to on the way home, when Mini rejoins the fold. And she doesn’t let me down. (I have to pull over as usual, until the fracas stops.)
On Sunday morning, despite the fact she is the most organised person I know, Little Seymour Number One is, as usual, not out of the house on time. She arrives at the revving Polo carrying her shoes – and has chosen white trainers for the parade. There is no time to argue. I pray silently that Boy doesn’t notice my inconsistent parenting.
Off we drive, and as we do so, I breathe a sigh of relief, and wonder why I always forget just what a palaver this is. At the parade, Boy’s rebellious grey beanie will be someone else’s problem for once. I feel guilty about this…
But it’s worth it to see the Four Little Seymours all walking in a parade to show respect and gratitude to those who died in war. Every year, Henfield does Remembrance so well, and we are proud to be part of it.
“Ooops, they’re leaving without me!”
*Fugglers are funny, ugly monsters who have teeth. I have umpteen Fuggler key rings because they were cheap in The Entertainer and I like them. All Seymours have them, except the posh ones (eg. Pandora: Number One) and those wot don’t need keys.
0 Comments