Chickie's MoT

"Yes, that's fine for tomorrow afternoon at 2pm, lovely, see you then", I said in my sweetest mummy voice. As I put the phone down, I turned to face a still red and blotchy Chickie who had reacted badly to his new moisturiser but was well enough to chomp his way through a yellow crayon.

"It's show time" I informed him but he had little interest in the Health Visitor's impending visit to put him through his developmental paces. Scooping lumps of sunflower coloured Crayola from the inside of his cheeks, I issued my 128th warning about consuming non consumables. Even if I don't catch him in the act, the crayons have a colourful way of giving him away on exit.

The next day, the scene was set. The house gleamed and so did Chickie having been buffed and coiffed to peachy 'my mummy looks after me fabulously' perfection. That is, apart from a few stubborn red blotches, some new baldy spots where he'd pulled his hair out the previous night and the flourescent goo that was sliming its way down his face.

I wondered whether to bring the rocking chair down from his room for the 'reading on mummy's lap' domestic bliss scene or 'colouring together at the kitchen table'. Both had merits of their own but I went with the colouring as it looked more authentic. In matching mother and son spotty aprons, we set about the drawing and colouring in of choo choos, cars and all his other vehicular obsessions.

Right on cue, the doorbell rings. "The health visitor's here sweetheart, now you be a good boy. No tantrums, no eating bad things and no throwing things at the lady, okay!" "Okay" he said earnestly to the point where I almost believed him.

I let the Health Visitor in and led her back to the table where Chickie had been instructed to remain to colour in Mummy's brillianty drawn choo choo's. "Oh!" exclaimed the Health Visitor in surprise as he turned around, displaying bright red lips that he'd coloured in with felt tip. "Why, you little ....!" I thought to myself. "What a silly boy" I said sweetly, through gritted teeth as a tug of war began over the red felt tip, Chickie screaming in defiance at it's forced removal. "Let's just clean you up so you can talk to the nice lady!". More screaming and throwing of crayons at mummy's head whilst the Health Visitor stood by my side, cowering behind her briefcase.

I don't know whether it prompted her first question about whether I had any concerns but after an hour of "Is it normal that he pulls his hair out? Why is he so obsessed with transport? Should I be worried that he's made up his own language that no one can understand? Why won't he eat fruit? Why doesn't he poo? He eats crayons and woodlice and Sudacrem and play doh - why? I can hear him snoring at night from downstairs, is that okay? He answers 'No' to every question - should he be doing that. He's scared of the smoke alarm and gazoos and balloons and the door bell? " I think she was regretting asking.