I have reached the stage in my children’s lives where they mind most of the things I do. Well, to put it more precisely, some of them (one of them in particular) mind all of the things I do, and I am bound by the fact that, because of this, I am restricted in what I may write about. The luxury of owning oblivious toddlers is no longer mine.
Neither is anonymity.
This blog has never been anonymous – there is little need for it to be. My stories are not of sufficient juiciness to require me to go all Penelope Featherington on you. This is not a scandal sheet.
I have dabbled in the risqué, and touched on issues that maybe I should have thought twice about. Puberty, marital relations and Brexit to name but a few. Because of the lack of anonymity, those topics were explored very tentatively, and with caution – I am, after all, a big fat prude, don’t forget. And I don’t want to embarrass anybody.
My Four Little Seymours have been, and continued to be, excellent blog fodder. I say this with the utmost affection. People are hilarious, kids especially so. And when one of my darlings says or does something funny, the temptation is to dismiss my maid, rush to my desk, sweep my ringlets aside, adjust my bow, find my quill and scribble his or her words down, verbatim, for posterity . Then publish them, all whilst navigating my heaving bosom.*
But now I am faced with a certain amount of resistance. Whereas, in the past, I would not need to hide my delight when daily life provided bountiful snippets of humour to write about, I now must consider whether I can write anything at all. I get into trouble for sharing photos in my own private chat groups, so maybe writing a detailed account of the latest mishap is contentious, to say the least.
But it’s so hard…
Take the other day, for example. One of the Little Seymours was being driven to an all-day play rehearsal, and I asked if a packed lunch had been prepared. Not really, was the answer. I have decided that after twenty years of making packed lunches, I am now on strike, given the fact that nobody likes my lunches anyway.( I may have mentioned this before – just a bit.)
I displayed my exasperation; no food packed equals hunger, equals misery, equals headaches, equals a very long day and no sustenance. There followed a one way conversation about how packed lunches are often simply just designed to FEED you – to ward off the pangs of hunger, a mere practical thing, if you will. Packed lunches cannot always be an M&S poke bowl or an artisanal sandwich. They do not have to impress.
The one way conversation was stopped in its tracks when the Little Seymour announced that she had “sandwich trauma”.
Sandwich trauma?
Sandwich trauma!?
Within those two words hides a whole arsenal of verbal munitions, designed to slate my sandwiches, knock my confidence and make me cross.
My children (and husband, in fact) have had sandwiches prepared for them, by me, mostly every day for years, and guess what? Not one of them has starved. Will I win sandwich-making prizes? No. Do I want such prizes? Hell no. I merely want to alleviate hunger in the most thrifty-yet-acceptable fashion.
So from here on, to circumnavigate the tricky question of what is and what is not acceptable to write about, I shall instead shift the focus and ask myself: “How can one write about a particular anecdote whilst protecting the identity of the protagonist?” In short, I will just jumble up the Little Seymours a bit. Is it Number One, Two, Mini or Boy who had the sandwich trauma? I shan’t tell. And nobody will ever know. I may even make up some names if things get particularly fruity. (Oh, have you heard of Boy Seymour’s cousin, Brad, who scuppered all the wifi at the Funky Little Bungalow by meddling with the hub password because he wanted to change it to bradismyfavechild11? Or what about Number One’s friend, Angelina, who spent an uncomfortable night in a marquee recently, where she was involuntarily subjected to a prolonged, traumatic and excruciatingly embarrasing gooseberry situation of foul and epic proprtions, prompting her to call her mother, Marcheline, at three thirty in the morning, begging for a rescue vehicle to be deployed?)
I think the crux of the issue I am having is that I am losing control. My little Seymours have opinions because they’re growing up. This signifies that I am no longer “a housewife”. I have a different job, and packed lunches are just some of the things that I no longer need on my to-do list. Conversely, I want blogging to be on my to-do list, but I’ve got less time to do it in. There is a shift happening, and I can’t decide if I like it. Do I lament the old, packed-lunch making halcyon days of the Little Seymours’ younger years, or do I cheer that they all now have the fine motor skills to make their own butties?
Whether this author continues to find interesting yet acceptable, publishable tales remains to be seen. If it all becomes too tricky, I may have to resort to reporting on my latest ponderings over random things, like what happened to the pop star Lolly, of Viva La Radio fame, or how rich people in Regency times had money without working. Did it indeed grow on trees? And where can I find such a specimen? I digress.
This blog, like life in general, is on its own path. We will just have to see where it goes.**
“Is that Boris Gump?” said one of the Little Seymours after watching the news on Friday.
*Please excuse the Bridgerton references. I am late to the party, but I am obsessed.
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