‘I’m going to be so late,’ Barnaby mumbles, my heart aching as his bottom lip starts to wobble.

I watch Chloe as she turns her head and frowns at him.

‘Come on,’ I say, unfurling her stubborn little fingers and pushing the release button.

‘Mummy, no!’ she screams, but I have her now.

I pull her arms towards me and guide my surprisingly heavy toddler out of the car towards the awaiting buggy. As I start lowering her into it, it starts rolling backwards in a protest of its own.

I didn’t put the sodding brakes on.

I place my foot behind the front wheel to wedge it in place. It still pivots so I have to clamp my knees around it at the same time, all while Chloe screams and tries to wriggle out of my arms.

I clamp her into the chair with my forearm while I quickly get her securely into the harness – not the easiest job when she pulls a limb back out as soon as I go to sort another. It’s like something out of a comedy sketch, although not at all funny from where I’m standing having a full-on mum sweat.

When she’s finally in I look up to see a young couple walking past with a look of horror on their faces.

‘Something to look forward to,’ I say to them, deciding, quite sensibly, to take my frustration out on them in a calm, passive-aggressive manner rather than on my banshee wailing child.

They scurry by in a hurry but I’m still snarling in their direction when I order Barnaby out of the car and get moving towards school, away from the prying eyes of judgemental neighbours and the car alarm that seems as persistent as my daughter.

It’s a twenty-five minute walk. Chloe cries the whole way, despite me offering her snacks or, as a very last resort, my phone to take pictures on. I’ve ruined her morning/day/life and she wants the world to suffer as a result.

‘Come on, Barnaby,’ I hear myself snap when he can’t keep up with my ridiculously charged pace. The guilt hits me instantly as I recognize, like with the strangers, I’m taking my frustrations out elsewhere. It’s not his fault the twats blocked our car in, or that we’re late, or that his sister is acting so irrationally. ‘You’re doing so well,’ I cheer at his crestfallen face. ‘You’re so fast. Look at those legs.’ As his face looks up at mine with pride my heart hurts.

We march into school, the gates abandoned and the playground completely empty, and head straight to reception to sign him in. Chloe has, thankfully, been distracted by her own shoe so the howling has momentarily subsided, but who knows when it might kick off again.