The One-Year Stand-Up

The stage is set. White walls, covered in instructional bulletins ("How to not pee in the bed"), drawings of tadpole people and headfooters ("Tank Yoi, Anna! You de Best!"). A bottle of alcogel on a laminated birch table. Scales and a measuring station. A computer running some kind of database program that looks like it is from 1998 (an impressive feat, because it probably is from 2008).

Three people sit in a row, on public sector chairs. Looking in the same direction. Their clothes are durable yet cozy. Room-to-maneuver. A diaper bin sits, its lid slightly ajar, behind them. A faint odor rising, gathering just underneath the low suspended ceiling. Ecophon Akustik tiles yellowing above them. At least two of the three have public sector hairdos. The third one is up for debate.

"You can come in now!"

One of them says, with a voice equal parts warm and weary.

The door opens.

A haggard-looking dad walks in. He leads a young child into the room. Hand-in-hand. A tiny pendulum of togetherness. Dad's back is creaking. 1975 by the looks of him (Impressive. Actually from 1985). The toddler looks like one of the tadpole people. Head firmly placed on a fleshy blob without a connecting neck. A smooth transition from skull to lovable squish. The young girl is smiling. Then she notices the trio. A frown.

"She just learned to walk."

The dad releases the tadpole's hand.

"See?"

"Yes, but is she funny?"

The least-public-sector-haired one says dryly.

The little one's frown deepens, her eyes narrow to the degree that she probably can't even notice how her own disapproval is mirrored by two thirds of the committee. They are now also staring at the one who spoke so bluntly. One of them clarifies:

"What my dear colleague means is of course to say 'how nice'. Baby steps like these must be applauded. However, they are, well, just baby steps and we are wondering if she also…"

"Has a… comedic side?"

The last one pipes up, like she can't wait to get to the punchline.

"We need to know, you know. It's the most important part of the one-year check-up!"

The dad looks at his daughter. Blinks. Are we already there? He has been dreading this moment. He grabs her hand again. To give or receive support? Here goes. The daughter looks at the diaper bin.

"Well, she laughs…"

He immediately gets cut off by someone who has clearly heard that story before.

"Laughing is not the same as being funny."

The least-public-sector-haired one types something into the 1998 machine. It makes a sound like a fax giving birth.

"Could she perhaps… do something?"

The warm-weary one offers.

"A routine? A face?"

Dad crouches down. His back creaking again with pent-up tension.

"Älskling. Do the thing. With your brows. When your eyes turn into little kidney beans?"

Nothing.

"The thing when you sway and pretend to fall?"

Nothing.

He begins to sway himself, as a demonstration. Does a much smoother pirouette than he has any right to be capable of, judging by the look of him. The pole-dancer and the tadpole. The committee writes it down. It is unclear in whose file.

The girl is placed on the scales. 12 043 grams. The faint odor of the diaper bin is growing by the second. By now it has probably sunk from the ceiling all the way to the little one's nostrils.

"Peekaboo."

The one who can't wait for punchlines tries to help.

"Peek-"

"-a-"

"-boo!"

The girl does not boo. Instead she slips off the scales and sets off straight for the door. She is clearly capable not just of walking, but also of running. "Running".

Somewhere in the database a box remains unticked.

The dad looks at the three of them. At his daughter. At the door. He opens his mouth and closes it again.

The author, by coincidence also haggard-looking and in his forties, lowers himself into the tale:

"Does she make you laugh?"

Her frown reaches the ninth circle of hell. Or it would, if she had a concept of hell. Or could count to nine. The committee almost feels the need to adjourn. And quick.

The dad notices and bursts out laughing.

"All the time."

Then all is well.