My 2004 Baby

In July 2004, Little Seymour  Number One was born. A tiny little thing she was, with blue eyes and limbs so thin I was scared of accidentally snapping them.

I remember the first time she smiled at me – or at least, I think I do. She was four weeks old, and we were caravanning in Devon. It might have been wind (doesn’t everyone say that?) but I am convinced she looked up at me in the gloom of the caravan one morning, and gave me the first proper sign that she knew who I was, and that she liked me: a tiny smile.

I recall the overwhelming desire at that point to know if she would like me when she was old enough to know me. I understood that she, as a tiny baby, probably couldn’t actually process likes and dislikes, but I knew that, all being well, she’d grow up, and when she was older, what would she think of her mum then?

The little baby enjoyed books from an early age, but only short ones, and lots and lots of Dr Seuss. But her reading was slow, as was her writing. Her accent was cockney (from where, I do not know) and she even went through a biting phase. But we will gloss over that for now.

When she started school, all I wanted was for her to be happy there. Mostly, she was. But she rarely excelled at anything. She plodded along.

In Year Six, though, there was a shift. In confidence and in focus. She got things! She was brave enough to share what she knew, try things out and perform! And when her SATS were done and dusted, she had got where she needed to be – or where she was supposed to be. She’d certainly exceeded my expectations.

At secondary school, Little Seymour Number One found the new challenges tough. We got a little routine going for her weekly Maths homework, which I helped her with, and very quickly I realised she was a motivated learner. She got on with her other bits of homework. We didn’t over-do it, but kept up a momentum. Just enough.

Alas, during Year Eight, Little Seymour Number One found herself living in a shed, sleeping on a shelf with three other children. There was no study, nor even a separate room for her to work in (unless you count the caravan). She sat at the “kitchen” table, or at the old PC, getting stuff done as and when she needed to. I never had to nag.

This went on for two years – more, actually, until at the end of Year Ten, Number One had her own bedroom at last. A desk of her own, and space to put her books! Because by now, she had become an avid reader. We invested in a second-hand laptop. And then, Year Eleven begun in earnest.

For the last six months, my eldest child has worked so hard! She’s been organised, and self-disciplined. She removed herself from social media to avoid distractions. She stopped reading – because, as a voracious reader, it was taking her away from her studies. She put her novels to one side, and saved them up for the long, lazy summer ahead.

Another local school was holding a pre-loved gown sale, and we even bought her a prom dress! Get it sorted early, I thought. Before exams. Before it’s too late…

Today, this very evening, my 2004 baby, my slow starter and late educational bloomer has been told that her GCSEs have been cancelled. There will be no exams.

When I heard Boris say this, I was shocked, and then I wanted to cry. All that work! A right of passage missed! And how in the Hell is Little Seymour Number One, like so many other young people right now, going to get the results she deserves?

After an hour or so, I went up and broke the news to her as she sat at her desk, revising.

Disbelief, incredulity and amazement passed across her face. She was sad – as her last days of school are now more imminent than ever. She was shocked and confused. She just did not know what to think.

Slowly, throughout the evening, she relaxed a bit. After all, the pressure is now off! The sheer bizarre nature of our country and the rest of the world right now is unsettling, and rather scary. But the exams have been cancelled, and that’s that. This is out of our control.

I hope that my girl is rewarded for all her hard work so far. I count my blessings that she has taken her mocks seriously. I am sorry she is missing out on her formal exams – the things she has been working towards since she was four, I suppose. But in truth, I am just happy that she is turning into a kind, thoughtful and hardworking person.  If there were a GCSE in being awesome, she would definitely be getting a 9 from me. Or a 10. Or whatever it is these days. After all, does it really matter anyway? Not in the face of a global pandemic it doesn’t.

Now, where did I put the toilet roll? My eyes appear to be leaking.