Yes, we’ve somehow gotten Dexter to age 2 without losing him at a soft play centre. Strangely he’s a healthy, (mostly) happy little person who is very much Here. So last week we had loads of tears and tantrums fun as we set about completing the questionnaire for his 2 year review - chasing him around with the 1001 as he experimented drinking out of beakers, threading Hula Hoops onto our iPhone charger cables, and drawing straight lines on Daddy’s insurance documents (all in the name of fine-finger dexterity).
1. Buy a football
All of this was pointless of course. You see, we’ve already failed our child by not providing a football for him to hone the art of kicking. Given there were no fewer than 2 out the 5 questions for gross motor skills involving a ball (40% of the total marks awarded), we’d already shown how hapless we are at this parenting game. If the health visitors had looked out of the window some 5 minutes before our appointment time, they’d have spotted me kicking a hastily-bought football around the car park (questionnaire and biro in hand) in a desperate attempt to show Dexter what was expected of him.
As if all this hadn’t started badly enough, Dexter picked up on how flustered I was having discovered a neat pile of baby vomit on my shoulder and had an epic meltdown in the Children’s Centre reception - we’re talking clinging onto the door frame with white knuckles and screaming as though he was about to be adopted.
2. Don’t fill in the questionnaire in the car park
You see, being a first-timer, I’d mistakenly thought this appointment was about him. In fact, I’d spent the last few weeks coaxing him out of his Little Tyke’s Cozy Coupe to coach him in the art of building towers out of Mega Blocks. I’d been selling it to him as an awesome opportunity to show a nice lady just how amazing he was at numerous pretty pointless things (like auditioning for Britain’s Got Talent if you like). But this review was nothing of the sort.
3. Don’t think the review is about your child’s progress
When Dexter, Heidi, Daddy and I were all finally ensconced in the poorly air conditioned room surrounded by toys that had clearly seen too much toddler and baby dribble over the last ten years, we handed over his questionnaire to be scrutinised. Then began what I mistakenly thought was a socially inept attempt at chit chat whilst the health visitor totted up our scores - “Do I smoke?”, “Are we mum and dad?” etc - but when we swiftly moved on to an interrogation of Dexter’s diet and a protracted conversation about stair gates, we quickly worked out this review was more about us than Dexter.
4. Don’t tell the truth
Slightly miffed, I started shooting apologetic glances at my sweet little toddler who was already building a sizable recreation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa in the corner and pointing furiously at his progress. Inevitably, it wasn’t soon before I slipped up… I mentioned Dexter enjoys the odd chocolate button.
5. Don’t try and be clever
Having clocked the look of disdain on the health visitors face, I quickly added that we always cook from fresh and “weren’t an ASDA family”. I can’t for the life of me think why I thought this was the ideal recovery. It was my bumbling way of trying to convince her that we weren’t one of the reprobates that shove trays of Turkey Dinosaurs in the oven every meal time. When Craig gave me a light kick from the chair beside me and nodded towards the tell-tale sign of a familiar white and green carrier bag protruding from the HV’s handbag, I knew I’d picked the wrong supermarket to denigrate. I knew I should have said Iceland.
6. Don’t cry
Moving on, of course the health visitor was keen to promote the services and activities that were available for Dexter to enjoy within the dilapidated shack at the back of the Children’s Centre. She reeled off tons of pointless classes and waxed lyrical about the hour long playgroup on at some ungodly hour on a Monday. Fumbling for words I think I used the word ‘twee’ then stuttered out our progress on nursery-hunting in an attempt to appease her. But she wasn’t put off and trotted out how it would be good for me to socialise with other mums. Despite my best efforts this one sentence undid all of the work of my antidepressants in one fail swoop and I burst into tears. This gave her a little insight into how far my agoraphobia has taken hold, and she was quick to rip away any facade I might have successfully painted up until this point.
The damage was then irreparable. There followed a whole 15 minutes of sympathetic smiles and head-nodding as she did their best to rattle off as much as she could remember from all her training. I sat snotty-nosed, embarrassed and sobbing like a prat. Craig did his best, he stroked my hair and gave me the occasional thumb-poke to the back of the neck when he tried to steer the conversation away from me… “So, we’re a bit concerned about Dexter’s speech”… “Did we tell you that he can do 30 piece jigsaws?”…
7. Don’t mark your child too harshly
After the outpouring was over we had 3 whole minutes to discuss the questionnaire. It turns out his communication and comprehension skills are first-rate (so no more Jeremy Kyle in the morning lest he become a crack cocaine addict aged 10) but his motor skills are slightly behind (that sodding football! In fact, if I had just remembered that Dexter could get up the stairs just fine if I put a packet of chocolate buttons up there to tempt him. It’s only the prospect of “Bath then Bed” that sees him regressing to a 9 month old). So we have to repeat the entire process again in two bloody months. At home. No doubt this was an on-the-spot decision so the health visitor can pass judgement over the home environment that this poor adorable toddler is holed up in with his deranged mother. No doubt my little genius will be performing keepy uppy’s by then… but then it’s not about him, is it? It’s about Me.
