The Hertfordshire woman who has it all but can't remember where she put it!

In a world where the perfect mother juggles work, home and a bloke, Julia manages to keep a pint of lager, a pizza and a baby all in the air at the same time.

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Julia Hames recalls the time she took young son Charlie for his 8-month assessment.

I was pretty relaxed about it. After all, it was hardly going to be the final papers for an M.Phil was it?

Add that to the fact that I feel murderous towards women who dangle their one-week-olds by the armpits and shriek "Look! Almost walking!" or "Look! Sitting up unsupported in his 20 week scan!", and I was more laid back than my cat! And so Charlie and I ambled into the Health Visitor’s office, all smiles.

Tweeters and whoofers
We started off with the hearing test. A complete breeze for my son who by chance had had his tweeters and whoofers tested at six weeks old as all premature babies do.

Anyway he had been fine at six weeks so naturally I smiled confidently at the Health Visitors. One of them distracted him by waving a feather at him and the other dashed from my left to my right making a variety of funny noises.

There were squeaky noises, mumbly noises, loud sharp noises (she sounded like an avant garde opera singer) and soft squishy noises.

Just as I started to worry that Charlie might yank his neck swivelling round to find her and her noises, I realised that he had become temporarily deaf. Just like his father does from time to time.

There was not so much as a flicker. Not even a spasm of movement. He could have been Beethoven for all the Health Visitors knew. Eventually after much running and tweeting the dear lady gave up taking my word that his hearing was OK. And it was at that point that he deigned to turn round and acknowledge her presence. Phew! We were through the hearing test.

Krypton Factor
I was getting tense. But no time to panic, we were on to manual dexterity! What was this? Krypton Factor for people who weigh less than 26 pounds? Anyway, since I am a classically trained pianist and also the clumsiest clot on earth the importance of using one’s hands to do things other than break things isn’t lost on me.

Charlie snatched the jingly rattle out of her hand and flipped it into his other hand which pleased her enormously. I relaxed a bit. She really enthused about this so I was sure we were heading for a top score. Maybe a perfect 6 like Torville and Dean?

Alas, when she offered him two small cubes he just stared at her. I have to say I wasn’t compelled to examine them either but Charlie was practically contemptuous. She frowned. "He should be trying to pick these up" I got all hot and bothered "Yes (nervous laugh) but he’s just not himself today. He’s been puking all weekend" Her expression kind of indicated that puking doesn’t normally affect manual dexterity so I shut up.

The she offered him a shoe lace with a yellow bead on it. Again Charlie looked at it with ill-disguised boredom and blew her a raspberry. He’s got quite a repertoire of raspberries as it happens, but sadly they are not part of the test.

"I’m worried about his pincer mechanism" she announced, as if he were a robotic crab. I tried humour to distract her momentarily while Charlie sorted his pincers out."Perhaps he needs some WD40!" Silence. So I told her that his ‘pincer mechanism’ was just fine when it came to ‘pincing’my glasses off my nose or ‘pincing’ the cat’s ear but of course this was just circumstantial evidence! The testimony of a devoted mother! She needed to see the real deal.

Pushiness
And then it happened. I turned into a monster of motherly pushiness. My eyes bulged as I willed, urged, coaxed and cajoled him to do some fabulous pincing. But Charlie was having none of it. Nil point again.

The physical examination went well, she admired his eyes (just as well as I was about to assault her with a teletubby) and she agreed that he is indeed a big bouncy boy and will no doubt grow up to be fit and strong. But then she said it. And I am still smarting.

"He’s Little Mr Average!!! Super!!!" Everything whirled about a bit like it does in films and the word AVERAGE bounced round my head. Charlie started to cry. I like to think it was because he understood, but I think it was because she was examining his foreskin.

So there it is. My England captain/mountaineer/concert pianist/Nobel Prize winner is, apparently, average. I think not!!!! Furthermore, I believe I am in a majority of mothers who will back me up that there is NOTHING WHATSOEVER REMOTELY EVEN SLIGHTLY AVERAGE about an eight month old baby.

As far as I’m concerned the only average person in Charlie’s test was me for behaving like a demented seal trainer. I wanted to call her that evening. I wanted to tell her that at 7.36 pm he rolled himself right over all by himself and tried to crawl.

So be warned. It gets to you all this development and assessment stuff. I suggest the world gives me a wide berth when we get to the Cycling Proficiency, Grade One piano and heaven help us GCSEs. I think I’ll start the valium now just to be safe.

The Gardener's Diary