Making the World a Scarier Place

My daughter is three.  She's the size of a two year old and according to two different evaluators, has verbal and cognitive capabilities somewhere around five.  This opens us up to a whole world of challenges and that's before tossing in that she's learning her social skills from me.  That's like the insane leading the slightly less insane.  Sorry, babe.

She gets away with a lot of shit based solely on the cute factor, but I think we're at the point where it's only cute to other people.  Like right now.  I'm in my bed, trying to type this with peanut butter smeared across the left side of my face and hair, because she thought it would be funny if her slice of toast mauled me.  Her exact words were, "Mumma, it would be really funny if my toast mauled you."  And she calls me strange...  (On a side note, I'm perfectly aware that a normal person would go wash it off, but then I'd lose my train of thought and that's just so not worth it.)

I took her to the mall today, partly to show myself that I can go to the mall without breaking out in cold sweat (I can't) and partly because we're going stir crazy in the house, it's too cold for the zoo or pool, and I'm avoiding someone who goes to the library on Tuesdays.  Tuesdays used to be our movie date day, since it's only $5 but I'm avoiding someone there, too.  Linda, if you read this, I hate you.  So, we went to the mall.

Our mall sucks, and I'm pretty sure it's about three stores away from going out of business, but that's one of my favorite things about it.  Unlike the nice malls within a half an hour away in a couple different directions, ours is almost always empty, save for the old people who mall-walk for exercise.  And they're awesome, so I can't even complain.  Also, there's some sort of war going on in the food court and the sample guys pretty much assault you with food every time you pass by.  It's like a free lunch.  I actually knew a couple whose dates consisted of getting free samples at the food court, but that's another story for another day.  But the reason Pie likes going to the mall is because of the playland.  It's nothing more than a brightly painted rubber-foam cesspool, but she loves it and it gives me a chance to drink coffee and sit on my ass.  I take a notebook too, but that never works out because if I don't watch her like a hawk, she'll eat someone's baby or something.

Yesterday, she threatened some old lady with one of her toys.  Today, she tried to steal a little girl's glasses.  And pulled another girl's shirt all out of shape.  And tried to push a boy down the slide.  And she always tries to kiss every one.  I could feel the collective sigh of relief from the other moms when we left.  I think the problem is that she needs friends because having me as the only guide to what's normal, sane, and socially acceptable is a complete set up for failure at life.  There are two problems with this, though.

Problem one relates to her.  She gets frustrated with kids her age.  Pie's mouth runs non-stop and it's almost all questions (or threats, but every now and then there's an "I love you" sprinkled in if she wants something) and they're usually questions that a three year old is not prepared to answer.  Older kids see three feet and 25 pounds and want nothing to do with the baby.  Even if that baby is ready to have her favorite doll kick every one of their asses.

The bigger problem is me.  I've never cared about making friends.  It's always been one of those things where if it happens, cool and if not, that's fine, too.  I have the most amazing friends in the world, but it was all sort of dumb luck, not some conscious search for companionship.  I don't even know how to go about making her some friends.  All my friends with kids live in my computer.  All my friends who live within driving distance have no kids.  We've tried a variety of meeting places, but every time one or both of us does something so socially unacceptable that I know it's the last time we'll see them.

Me:  We should this again!
Other Mom:  Oh, yeah.  Definitely.  I'll call you. 
She nervously hurries away like I just told her one or both of us have rabies and I know she does not have my phone number.  Sorry kid.

She needs to have some friends to learn to be a friend and in this I'm fairly sure I'm causing some irreparable and lifelong damage.  Then, I look at her.

She's me.  She's exactly me, but pretty and with fantastic hair and probably smarter, at least in relation to our ages.  And if she's me, all that damage will only make her more fantastic one day.  And as soon as I get this fucking peanut butter off of my face, everything will be okay again.