Your seven-year-old telling you he doesn’t like his life really sucks the joy out of your day.

It’s not the greatest start to the day, compounded by my snapping, “Yeah well, who does?” which means I’ll not only feel worried about him all day, but guilty too. Bring it back a bit with shallow promises to buy him stuff, but still. Damn.

No cheese for lunch boxes will have to make another trip to school later and look like a really unorganised rubbish mum, which even I will admit is a pretty fair reading of the situation.

Sister calls for a catch up while I’m in the supermarket which brings some joy back into the day.

Bike breaks, but I feel myself calmly rising above such petty set backs. Clearly my subconscience predicts bigger trouble ahead and is holding back on sweary, kicky tantrums for the time being.

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