Perhaps I don’t follow through with my words enough – like the time I said we wouldn’t go on holiday if she continued to throw the toy cars at the radiator. She saw straight through that blatant lie and carried on chucking. As if I’d ever cancel our holiday – I took it too far and didn’t stay within realistic parameters. Even tonight, we’re playing a game. We both know that now the idea of an after-dinner treat has been introduced there’s absolutely no way she’s going to go without one, no matter what she does in the lead up to getting it. Not unless I want to spend two hours with a toddler screaming in my face while sitting in front of the freezer to stop her getting one out. So she will absolutely be joining her brother in the eating of a ridiculously named Nobbly Bobbly.

Chloe picks up one side of her plate and lifts it a centimetre off the table before putting it back down, causing it to donk on the wood. She repeats the action with speed. Donk, donk, donk, donk, donk, donk.

I try to ignore it so that I can just get back to eating my dinner while it’s still warm. If she doesn’t want to eat that’s her problem – I’m not going to let her ruin meatballs for me too. I tell myself that, but I can feel the pressure starting to rise as a tightness grips my chest. It’s the overwhelm. The overbearing feeling of being utterly out of my depth. I wish I was better at this. I wish I understood the techniques all those experts tell us to use to practise gentle parenting. I wish I was enough to keep her happy, content and able to do as I ask. I wish we could all smile and laugh more.

I chew my food miserably, trying to ignore the small but irritating sound she’s creating, unsure if she genuinely likes the sound or just wants to wind me up.

‘Jacob did a trump in assembly today,’ Barnaby says randomly, a giggle in his voice as he remembers.

The tapping stops.

‘It was so loud,’ he continues, really enjoying the telling of events. ‘Mrs France looked up to see what it was and everyone turned and stared. He went so red.’

‘Was it smelly?’ asks Chloe, instantly captivated.

‘Yeah! Like dragon’s poo!’ nods Barnaby, shoving a whole meatball into his gob.

I resist telling him he should’ve halved it first.

Chloe chuckles at her big brother, picks up a fork, loads it with food and copies the action with a smile on her face. It’s as though the last ten minutes of dramatic behaviour haven’t happened at all. Even the way she looks has gone from angry gremlin to sweet and endearing.