One Year Check

*sings* Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday dear me...

I'm back. And I'm one.
Consequently, I am standing, walking when holding someone's hand and I can remember the names of about 30 items. My thoughts now move apace; so let me know if I go a too fast for you, or if some of the concepts I cover go a little over your head - it's nothing to be ashamed of. You're just thick, that's all.

To celebrate my coming of age, Mum allowed a mentalist to stab me in the leg three times with sharp pieces of metal. Not exactly what I had in mind, but apparently "it's for my own good". This is presumably, the sort of well intentioned activity I should file away in the same cupboard of intelligence as that time they let Mum and Dad take me home from hospital. 

Off the back of the stabbing episode, Mum pencilled in half an hour of molestation at my One Year Check. For those not in the loop about such things, this is an opportunity for an overweight woman with the breath of  seven bums to weigh, measure and probe about my person. I must not only tolerate this but, as I was instructed by Mum before we went in, "sit still", "lie down" and "don't trump".
This period of physical assessment was followed by a brief exchange between my mother and Butt Breath, where, yet again, the issue of my generous proportions was flagged up. Don't tell me - I'm 98th percentile for my age, right? Well blow me down. This is brand new information.
Mum then went through the usual motions, explaining how healthy my diet is by listing my daily intake and outlining my portion sizes, while our rotund friend sat nodding vacantly while daydreaming about the deep fried Mars bar in store for her tea.


After further sniping about my "stocky build" and low blows regarding my "ample thighs", I was expected to demonstrate my mental capacity. Which I promptly did; by throwing the jigsaw puzzle piece straight at Tangy Teeth.
She wasn't impressed. 
Neither was Mum (though looking at the disgusted look on her face, I could tell she wholeheartedly agreed with my assessment of the woman).

Once everyone had recovered from my violent outburst, Mum eye-balled me in that way she does when she expects me to become her performing monkey. And if it meant getting a safe distance from Anus Aroma sooner rather than later, I was up for it. I quickly: identified little balls hidden under cups, pushed the tiny toy car around the room, flicked through the pages of the board book, and, at the second time of asking, point blank refused to insert the square jigsaw piece into the square hole. I've always hated squares.
Then I looked at Mum with the "can we go now?" face, and pointed at the door.

As she gathered my things, and the findings of my One Year Check were summarised, I knew we were on a winner. 
But then.
Just as we approached the door, and as if having identified our joint weakness, Stench Smile leaned in close and offered a final tip.
"Just one more thing. Does she still have a dummy?"
Mum responded that I do, but only for bed.
"Well you want to get rid of that now. Otherwise you'll not just have her size to worry about; she'll have wonky teeth as well".
Thankfully, she didn't offer to breathe on all my dodies to disintegrate them permanently.

We left; Mum pricing up baby jigsaws on her phone because I "clearly need the practise", me banned from my dummy and self-conscious of how my thighs must look in leggings, and both of us trying to banish the lingering smell of faecal matter from our nasal hair.

*resumes singing*...happy birthday to me.