It was bad enough when Number One went. But Little Seymour Number Two has now gone and got so old, she has had to leave her lovely little village church school and venture to the comp’ down the road, a scary bus drive away…
When I started my blog, Number One had just turned eleven and was enduring her first few days at secondary school. It seems so long ago, (yet at the same time, only yesterday) and here we are, about to do it all again.
Yesterday, during her leavers’ service in church, I held it together. Number Two had a few tears, but still seemed remarkably stoic. She is a funny child. She looks and observes, and apart from the occasional outburst of pure, unadulterated venom, she’s easy going and quiet. What is going on in her head? Often, it’s very hard to tell.
I was expecting to cry – but I did not. That may have had something to do with the fact that at the last minute, I decided to orchestrate a leavers’ song for the class to sing for their teacher, and I was a bag of nervous adrenaline. This rather quashed the urge to cry, as once the song was done, I was just so relieved that part was over.
This service was the culmination of a whole host of fantastic activities Number Two’s class have been a part of in recent weeks. After their SATs, for which they all worked very hard, there was Bikeability. Then they put on a fabulous production of Oliver! My Number Two was Dodger, and now seems to have morphed in to some sort of cocky Victorian dandy boy who drops his Hs at every opportunity. Exorcising the Dodger in her will prove tricky, but as I quite like it, I won’t try too hard.
A few weeks back there was a big ceremony at a local abbey, where we sang songs and pondered our kids’ next steps – without the last day looming too closely.
The class had a treat to a local bouncy warehouse place where the rubber smells of B.O. and the insurance premium must be gargantuan. It was great fun! Our group came away with four head bumps and one massive nose bleed and considered ourselves fortunate.
Then, after that excitement, it seemed like a good idea to camp on the school field, and despite the weather turning on us and sending down a whole season’s worth of rain in one evening, everyone had fun. The tents leaked. It was certainly memorable.
And then, Little Seymour Number Two decided to have about nineteen over-tired eleven year-olds over to our house for a party. I was a little apprehensive. But it didn’t stop me from making them take time out of their frivolity and forcing them to practise their leavers’ song and bless them – they all did it with aplomb. The Shed – our dear old shed – came up trumps, as the food and drink, ballons and music could all be dealt with down there. And what’s more, the sun came out!
There were hoodies and (the promise of) yearbooks, scribbled-on shirts and teachers’ pressies. We took photos in an effort to halt time, and we bade emotional farewells to those we won’t see as often in the future.
Then, before we knew it, we were there, it was over, and they were done.
The Four Little Seymours are growing up. Mini Seymour is done with Key Stage One now, and the thing she is most excited about? You’ll never guess. It’s my packed lunches. Her free meals are over and so she must join the ranks and take her own food. She’s over the moon about this. But how long will it be before she feels the same way about my sandwiches as every other bugger?
I give it a week.
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