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   katharine (thatkatharine@ohai.social)'s status on Monday, 09-Feb-2026 02:45:34 JST katharine

   I was 8–9 years old and with my mother in a doctor’s waiting room. There was an area with toys, including a set of wooden building blocks. Also in the waiting room was a boy of about 4–6 and his mother. He was an absolute noisy terror, running and screaming and clanging the blocks. At the height of his tantrum, his mother simply said in the most syrupy sweet chirpy voice, “I’m sorry you’re not happy” and continued on reading her magazine.

   • Mr. Bill repeated this.
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     katharine (thatkatharine@ohai.social)'s status on Monday, 09-Feb-2026 03:31:40 JST katharine

     in reply to

     The person who could do something to stop it, simply did not. The rest of us could only do our best to tune out, look on in quiet horror and judgment, and try to stay out of the way of the uncontrolled flailing tantrum-thrower.

     I’ve thought of this moment a lot over the last ten years.

     “I’m sorry you’re not happy.”