I like the school holidays. They’re great. The benefits of time away from a routine are numerous, and the freedom that being “off-timetable” affords is marvellous!
This love of school holidays probably stems from the fact that I am a big kid who has never grown away from the memory of carefree Augusts, and I’m sure it’s not totally unrelated to my origins as a teacher, either. You can’t just un-form the “end-of-term” synapses that have been growing through childhood, and them cemented with force in an adult who teaches, working away towards the next week off with fierce determination and no small amount of desperation. It’s like Pavlov’s dogs – school holidays will always be golden to me, and trigger much excitement.
But the golden glow is tarnished somewhat at the moment. Let’s just say that maybe, instead of gold, holidays could now be described as copper-coloured. Or maybe even just yellow.
The reason for this slight shift in mood is the fact that WE LIVE IN A BLEEDIN’ SHED! Plus, I have a mercurial TEENAGER! There are shoes everywhere, there’s no space for anyone to escape from anyone else, the toilet system scares me, and there are flies. Great big, fat, squidgy flies that buzz in my ear, taunting me, and threatening to enter my mouth. Ew! I cannot abide flies.
The first day of the holidays yesterday was an eye-opener. It was also a surprise to me just how vile the Four Little Seymours could be towards each other. We had shouting from the outset, arguments over knives at breakfast, and wallops flying about. There was doginthemangering left, right and centre, and answering back aplenty.
I was not impressed.
Who are these beasts?
I found myself calling an emergency meeting, whereupon I promised that I would take no prisoners, put up with zero nonsense and remove all devices at will.
Devices may be the way of the future, granted. I am not a Philistine. But all the while there’s a DEVICE of any sort around, the Four Little Seymours are certainly not going to be picking up a book, or colouring. They are not that way inclined, and devices are not helping. To me, books are a guilty pleasure. To my children? They’re the labour-intensive precursor to the film.
To be fair to them, The Shed is not an easy place for the Four Little Seymours to be, all together, all of the time, with only a smattering of their own stuff around to distract them. In their bedrooms, they’d know where to dig out the Hama beads, or find the vintage My Little Ponies. They’d have their secret sweetie stashes to raid, or the bunk bed to convert into a small apartment with draped blankets. There would be a place to just flop out, Â interesting things to sort through, craft boxes to pore over, and walls to draw on.
Devices seemed less of a problem, back when we lived in The Funny Little Bungalow. For a start, they didn’t seem to be relied upon nearly so much as is threatening to be the case in The Shed. I am probably over aware of the potential to just let them indulge, given the current situation. It would be so easy to leave then looking at my phone, or Big Seymour’s ancient iPad all day. They’d be quiet, occupied and happy. “Can I go on your phone?” asks Mini Seymour, umpteen times a day, and I have images in my head of her riding it, like a small witch on a newfangled form of witchy transport.
But I can’t do it! And after yesterday’s dreadful, bickery start to the holidays, there was a total electronic ban. And – do you know what? They read! They made stuff! And they coloured! They even spent some time using the workbooks I cruelly bought for them, in an effort to stop their brains from petrifying totally over the summer break.
Poor little buggers.
Today has been better. We went to Tesco, and despite much asking, we managed not to buy any plastic tat. The summer house is full enough of that already. I managed to get away with buying them all a bottle of Frijj, on offer at 50p each, and some sweets TO SHARE. Somehow, Mini Seymour succeeded in cajoling me into also purchasing a popping candy lolly from The Reduced Section (a place they love), and some animal-shaped crayons for thirteen pence. I have a feeling I may have been duped…. But allowing Boy Seymour to spend over five pounds of his treasured coinage on some glittery lip balm (and a cuboid Scooby Doo) just seemed like a bad idea. Three pounds fifty! What’s in it? Truffle juice?
Little Seymour Number two just wanted to BUY SOMETHING! Which is surely the start of a terrible addictive habit, is it not?
As for Number One, she was walking around with a stash of cash after her recent birthday, but did not ask to buy a single thing. Oh, except a Wimpy Kid book, which she wanted me to pay for…
Which, of course, I did not. But I should have done! After all, it’s a book! A BOOK! I am definitely sending out mixed messages here. God! Give me strength!
I must remind myself that, even when we are not living in cramped and basic conditions, school holidays always require a bit of getting used to. There is a settling-in period, when the Four Little Seymours have to remember that there are other people sharing their zone. This is their home and their space, and they like to defend their small portion of it. Vehemently.
Hopefully, after a few days, peace will reign. The Four Little Seymours will remember that Mummy wants them to be just like The Famous Five, minus the dog, where they have wholesome japes, lots of exercise and pleasant demeanors. They might even solve crimes, and pop up the Magic Faraway Tree, where they’ll realise that The Shed is actually not as bad as Spinning Land, and much less dizzy-making, too.
The Four Little Seymours are my favourite people. They’re stoic, patient little wotsits, who really are putting up with a lot. They have coped so well since April Fools’ Day, when we began roughing it in our little wooden house, and by and large, they’re doing OK. We have a little bit of adjusting to do, whilst we are all here together much more of the time, but as I type, my fears are allayed somewhat as they’re up on The Shelf, playing some sort of “mystery thing in a box” game. They’re not asleep, as I requested. There are minor cusses coming from up there, too… but they are NOT ARGUING. They are not on a bleedin’ device, and they’re not telling me I am “the fee word” (Boy Seymour’s current insult).
For once, it’s not swelteringly hot up on The Shelf. It will soon be time for them to settle off to sleep – when they’ve contained themselves and recovered their composure after the hilarious display of Boy Seymour parading around up there wearing nothing but a carrier bag with holes punched in all the key places.
As the weather cools, though, I feel myself giving more and more thought to the practicalities of The Shed in winter. It was nippy in April. I swear the sheets felt damp last night… what will February half-term be like?
It won’t be golden. Or even yellow. I suspect it might be blue. To match my toes.
Oh my.
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