Thirteen

The Four Little Seymours. It’s a catchy collective term. I like it.

But unfortunately, I am starting to wonder how long I can justifiably use it. Because today, something rather monumental played out in The Shed, where we live, and it has left me all of a fluster.
Little Seymour Number One has turned thirteen.
THIRTEEN!
I have a teenager.

This is, of course, wonderful and marvellous. I remember looking at my tiny little baby, twelve years and eleven months ago, when she was all small and beautifully pathetic in a scary kind of way, and wondering if I would be able to raise her to the point where she was a person in her own right. When she could smile, and voice her opinions, make decisions and carve out a niche for herself in this world. Above all, I wondered, would she like me?

Well, let me tell you, she can certainly voice her opinions alright. Usually loudly, and with much indignation. Little Seymour Number One is very much a person in her own right, and has friends, hobbies and interests to her name. She possesses talents and skills, fears and worries. And by and large, she seems to like me well enough.
Which is a bit of a miracle, actually. Because the poor child, at an age when she might like a bit of her own space, is having to share not even a room, but a meagre shelf, with her three younger siblings, including an annoying BOY and a live wire of a MINI sister. Her stuff is taken. Her artwork becomes damaged. Her bed is jumped on, and her Twirl Bites get stolen.

Yesterday, fortuitously, some brand new windows arrived, including two for Little Seymour Number One’s fabulous, not-yet-existent, double aspect, future bedroom. “Look” I told her! “How exciting! Here is your birthday present! It was very expensive!” I enthused.
She did not. She walked away down the garden sullenly, yet wisely without complaining, for she knows that a new bedroom will be well worth the wait. But windows? Really? I guess you have to be in charge of the budget to really appreciate how marvellous such things actually are. Especially on your birthday.

To tell the truth, as much as babies are rather stressful in their own way, the teenage years are the ones that worry me, and for so many reasons not even remotely related to living on a building site, or associated with shed-life.

How will I ensure Little Seymour Number One reads enough books? I can’t force her. What about revision? Even if she had somewhere quiet to do it, she hasn’t the first clue where to start! I have forgotten most of my school maths, and I may know a lot of french vocabulary, but how am I supposed to help a disinterested teen to learn the grammar?
There’s driving and money and drugs to scare me, and what happens when she wants to go… ABROAD? Conveniently for an anxious parent, her passport expired years ago.

Little Seymour Number One didn’t want a party this year. Funny that. I suspect there is an element of embarrassment about the way we are living at the moment, which makes her reluctant to entertain. But conversely, she told me today that she won’t be going to friend’s “sleepover” (such a dreadful modern word), because she’s far more comfortable and relaxed at home. Even on the shelf in The Shed with those annoying Little Seymours, I asked her?
Yes, she said. Even with them.
Which made me happy.

Despite the odd hissy fit and shouting match, I am really very proud of my thirteen year old. So, maybe now she should have a blog name more befitting a young lady of her size and position? I think, from now on, my first child will be referred to simply as Number One. It has a Bond-esque ring to it, and is far more suitable for someone who takes size seven and a half shoes and is taller than both of her grandmothers. She’s not little any more, and I’d better get used to it.

Now I just hope that Big Seymour can get The Funny Little Bungalow finished some time in the next five years, so that Number One can reap the rewards of her patience, hosting “sleepovers” galore, and enjoying space of her own before she becomes an adult. And if he can’t?
There’s always the caravan.
Classy.