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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.