No, this is not another depressing post (I seem to have written a lot of serious and rather melancholy stuff lately). This is how my son greets me with remarkable frequency. Who would have thought being eight was so difficult?
He was playing his trombone, and playing lots of staccato notes rather than the legato his teacher wanted him to play. Foolishly, I point this out. I had first said how well he was playing and he just needs to lengthen the notes a little.
"But I can't!" he wails. "This is the worst day of my life!"
Flings down trombone, collapses to floor and tries to hide.
Or last weekend, when visiting Grandpa and being told he had to be a little bit quiet and not walk around with his juice and find something to do whilst Mummy told Grandpa about her visit to Great-Granny in hospital (a whole other post there, methinks).
"Oh, this is the worst day of my life!" Cue collapse to floor in floods of crocodile tears.
[Admittedly the day was not great, but he had spent over an hour playing games with his Dad and eating chocolate in the hospital cafeteria.]
And yesterday? He has his first swimming lesson since we moved house, which he loved, but much of the evening is taken up with ferrying his sister around to other activities. Cue ...
"This is the best day of my life - ever!"
"Well, apart from my friends falling out at playtime."
At least he has some balance in his life then!