And so the joys of a new term begin.
Today’s saga went like this…
Number One had left to go to the bus stop. She had a small farewell committee. How long she will permit me this indulgence, I do not know.
The smaller Seymours and I took the long walk back down to The Shed, two of them having an argument about the merits of avoiding slugs with one’s scooter wheels on the way.
Then, something strange happened.
Mini Seymour began to brush her hair. Her very own hair. Without a fuss and without being asked. The poor child doesn’t have much hair, and longs for it to grow, but at present, it’s a slightly curly-ended, mouse-coloured bob that refuses to stay tidy no matter what we do. But bless her, she was brushing it.
Wow, I thought. And then all became clear.
“Mummy. There’s something in my hair.” Sheepishly, she approached me.
“Let me have a look,” said I, anticipating tangles, fearing nits and suspecting breakfast.
I found none of the above. Instead, I found chewing gum.
There was no time for freezers and vinegar or whatever else YouTube might have helpfully suggested. I simply cut a chunk of her hair out, studied it, was pretty sure it was gum but decided not to pursue it. After all, it was 8.15 on a school morning, and I have recently decided to pick my arguments. (Arguments with Mini Seymour have been taking at least forty minutes of late, and I didn’t have the luxury of time just then.)
I had let the thing lie – for now. I would be investigating the matter in due course. Perhaps Mini Seymour had fallen in some gum at school? Unlikely. Maybe one of her siblings had thrown it at her? More likely. Possibly, the poor child didn’t have gum in her hair at all, but some putty of the window variety, the likes of which I used to watch my dad replace panes of glass with in the olden days. I mean, we live on a building site. She might have picked something like that up…
Then, she betrayed herself.
After brushing her teeth, she announced that she would just be popping up to her bed on The Shelf to tidy it. She had a shifty look in her eyes, and if the voluntary housework hadn’t given her away, those eyes would have done.
I knew if I didn’t act fast, the evidence would be removed. So I called to Number Two, who was faffing with guinea pigs in the garden. I advised her that she might want to pop up to Mini’s bed and investigate, paying particular attention to the under pillow area, which, strangely, Boy Seymour seemed to know something about.
Mini Seymour broke down. She confessed all as a scream of hellfire rent the air, and Number Two discovered her pack of Seriously Strawberry Hubba Bubba Bubble Tape nestled in the folds of her small sister’s pillow. Empty.
The bugger!
A stand-off ensued. Little Seymour was incensed. Mini Seymour declared her actions were beyond her control. (“I can’t help it because I love it!” Worrying.) Boy Seymour adjudicated, pompously refereeing with all the airs and graces of a child who has never put a foot wrong in all his life. He wasn’t helping.
Of course, after that, Mini Seymour didn’t fancy school. When asked what she thought she’d rather do all day, she figured she’d be just fine at Sharky’s, our local soft play centre. Or perhaps she’d just do some scooting. Then she wouldn’t get bored. School is hard work, she said. Not her cup of tea.
We made it off our premises eventually, Mini Seymour objecting to everything from the dew on the car to the location of her seat belt. Poor Little Seymour Number Two had calmed down after retrieving her gum (or empty pack thereof), and chose not to dwell on the matter. But she won’t have forgotten it. That’s for sure.
Oh, how wonderful it will be, when they all have their own bedrooms. Then, the theft of Hubba Bubba Bubble Tape will be a far more clear-cut crime, with trespassing to add to the charges.
Oh gosh, but then what’ll I do? Can you ground a six year-old? I suspect not. Suggestions please..?
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