I guess I've been feeling a bit low recently, possibly brought on by the potent combo of too much time on my hands and being exposed to too many shouty children (I'm not very good with relentless noise). The kids were rolling around on the rug the other day as if they were trying out for WWE - lots of body slamming, slapping and bellowed insults - and, rather than my usual technique of shouting and banishing one or both to the 'naughty step', I was so tired and fed up with life in general that I sat on the sofa and burst into tears (probably pre-menstrual as well, if I'm going to be entirely honest).
Firstborn immediately loosened her grip on the Small(er) One's hair and raced over, wailing. "Mummy! Don't cry!" There I am, a pathetic dribbling mess pretending to be an adult, clasped to the skinny chest of my 6 year old who is patting, yes, patting me on the head and murmering "there, there". I'm afraid to say that such kindness just made me cry even harder.
The Small(er) One, who'd been watching suspiciously from a safe distance, then marched over to this sad scene, glared at us both and roared: "Why is nobody cuddling me?"
Psychopath or future Master of the Universe? I dread to think.