My 11-year-old son has been sobbing his heart out this week.
The yearly dread of soccer grading was upon us, the pending selection process sending nerves rippling through every playground in the state.
Turn up at the crack of dawn, dribble, shoot, show us your best soccer skills and wait.
Watch: Be a good mum. Post continues below.
On decision day my son was quiet when I picked him up but this isn’t unusual. I glanced at him as we drove home. He stared out the window and chewed his lip, but didn’t say a thing.
In the afternoons he likes to chill so I let him be. He watched some TV, ate a snack. He would tell me what happened when he was ready.
Which team did he make? Did he make a team at all?
When I walked into the lounge a little later, he was wiping his tears and snotty nose with the back of his hand.
"I scored three goals and tried my hardest but they still didn’t want me. I can’t play with my friends," he said.
His fate had been decided. The one thing he’s been looking forward to all year isn’t going to happen.
We’re not parents who moan about stuff. In the past we’ve said to him, "Bide your time. Play in the twos for now and next year you’ll join your mates in the ones."
He believed us. He got better at soccer and is playing on Saturdays with kids a year older.
But somehow he still hadn't made the school team.
By the end of the week he was still upset so for once we decided to be those parents.