My Number One Child has moved out.
She is sixteen years old, and she has left the double-aspect bedroom she adored and has chosen instead to live elsewhere – further away from the rest of the family, in a more isolated spot .
Yes, Little Seymour Number One has moved to Baghdad.
Baghdad, if you recall, is not, in this case, in The Gulf. Nor is it dusty, or hot . (In fact, it is the opposite.) Baghdad is our bomb site, our dumping ground, our extra space. It is our annexe.
Number One has given up her double aspect bedroom that she loves for one thing only: her own bathroom.
My green and gold tiled downstairs bathroom, sporting its very own toilet, sink and shower, is rather splendid. It even has a bath – a “dunker”, as I’m calling it. (You can just about bathe, but you cannot lounge.) It has brushed metal gold tile trim – the most expensive in Topps, and it sports a whole wall of mirror. It is rather… what’s the word… opulent. (Or is it ostentatious..?)
In the blink of an eye, Number One had made her mind up. She started to move furniture down the stairs. Things were banished to The Shed, and then, upon reflection, returned to the house. (I could have told her that the pine corner unit is the perfect option for that awkward space, but she wouldn’t listen.) The solitary remaining fish, Pearl, was set up in her tank, and the fairy lights were hung with aplomb. (There was banging into the freshly plastered walls. I chose to turn a blind eye. Big Seymour might not notice…)
She made the room look better than it ever has before, I will give her her due. The child has a talent for interior design. Her desk fitted under the window. Everything seemed to fit in.
But.
For years we have awaited carpet. The lack of carpet has been an ongoing joke. We have been so long without carpet that we have almost accepted that carpet is not happening. But this week…. we have only gone and ordered carpet!
And so, with the prospect of carpet in her double-aspect bedroom, and the sense that living downstairs was in fact, rather lonely, she has opted to move back to her bedroom. Much to the disgust of Number Two, who had already moved in to the better bedroom in her head, and also much to the disgust of Mini Seymour, who was in turn planning the layout of Number Two’s bedroom in intricate detail. The poor buggers.
I can’t say I’m disappointed. It felt weird, my number one child being downstairs, away from me. I didn’t like it. My teeny baby. My little Popsicle. She may be sixteen and more sensible and self-controlled than I will ever be, but she is still my little girl. She belongs upstairs, with me. Safe.
God help me when she actually leaves home. What on Earth will I do then? Give me babies any day. They may cry and vomit and puke, but at least you know where they are.
#givemebabies
A flashback to when Number One broke Boy’s guitar. Happy days.
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