Playdate

Our friends A (a few months younger than F) and J (a couple the other way) came over to visit for lunch the other day.

I had visions of a cheerful meal followed by both children playing together under the warm and relaxed supervision of their parents. There was a dream of a glass of wine.

Which was always going to be ridiculous, let's face it.

F had only just woken up as they arrived, and got a bit thrown by the extra people in her lunchtime routine. Or something. I'd rather believe that than believe that she is as dramatically antisocial as she pretended to be for the next hour and a half. Every time friendly baby A came to cuddle her or say hello, she burst into howling tears and threw herself on the nearest parent as though we were a divan in a Victorian melodrama.

Okay, having a chap you've only just met rush up to you and pat your bum is perhaps more forward than most young ladies would appreciate. But the degree of weeping seemed excessive, even to me, and I'm a right drama queen.

You can tell when F is being melodramatic, because she can shut her waterworks off the moment she gets whatever she's after. In this case, as long as she was the beating heart of Daddy's world to the exclusion of all else, there would be no more screaming. Even if she is exactly that on a moment to moment basis, I'm trying very hard not to let her know it at the moment.

So I tried to behave as though lunch was proceeding as planned, wine, pleasant conversation, jolly playtime and all. No mean feat with the equivalent of a sonic landmine clamped to my legs. I thought I managed it with great aplomb.

After an hour and a half, by which time even A's cheerful attempts to socialize were looking a bit woebegone, we went out to the park instead. Where F repeated her performance with someone else entirely.

A little girl came up to her, smiles from ear to ear, and tried to shake hands. F brushed her off and turned away, clearly far too busy, important and socially superior to have time for such a frivolous encounter, although she did accept the girl's brother's kindly offer of a stick. Brusquely and without thanks.

At least she didn't scream at them. Perhaps she frowns on public displays of emotion. She's part Swedish, after all.

Pappagris, they say in Sweden, of little girls who cling to daddy, Daddy's pig. The sooner she goes to day care and gets used to playing with other people, the better, I don't want her turning into a shut-in. She's very obviously fascinated with other kids when we're out, but she doesn't really know how to play with them yet.

I'm sure she'll learn, and quickly too. And I'm equally sure I'll rue the day she started at some future point when I'm knee-deep in 8-year-olds trying to have a sleepover.