Sitting on my three-year old daughter’s bedroom floor beneath a carpet of furiously flung leggings, I wait out the storm of her epic temper.


We’re ten minutes into her daily tantrum over what she has to wear for nursery, a hellish new addition to our morning routine that’s been starting our days with a double shot of cortisol for the last two months. I make attempts to talk her down from her fury, but she just pelts me with socks.


As a tension headache takes my temples in its jaws, I begin to run out of steam. “What IS it?” I ask, “What’s wrong with these trousers?” Stopping mid-canary, she wails “I can’t wear them, the big girls will say I look stupid.” The big girls, she tells me, wear dresses.


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