We believe in assisted parenting, and for us that comes in the shape of a portable DVD player which we take in the car when we take longer trips.

[I sometimes wonder if we are raising a generation of kids who are less and less aware of their bearings because instead of looking out the window at their surrounds and daydream, like we used to, their eyes are trained towards a tiny screen. But that's for another day. When I am prepared to admit liability, too.]

On Sunday we bundled the kids up and put Thomas The Tank Engine on because I needed a break from Charlie and Lola.

Now, my son – who, although I go on about his temper, is actually quite even-mannered most of the time. He nearly always shrugs off the occasional scrapes and bumps any child scores. In amongst his peers I’ve seen other children bow to their bad moods before he does.

I wish I could say his blithe acceptance, his adaptability, of such knocks was inherited from me, but I’m afraid my husband in this case is quite prepared to wrestle me to the ground and give me pink-bellies until I am forced to admit that, okay! whatever! he probably did inherit that from you.

So when Riley began to cry in the backseat at a red light, I must admit, my first reaction was pure alarm. I turned around; Keira was not interfering with him. He’d not sustained any hurt. So what was causing those fat tears; their heat blushing his cheeks?

Then I listened to the music:

Accidents happen now and again, just when you least expect
Just when you think that life is okay, fate comes to collect
Accidents happen now and again, when people or trains get smart
If you don’t concentrate on the thing that you’re doing
Accidents will happen, just like that

He turned his face from the screen, blinking hard, sobbing, “Thomas….Thomas…”

Then I guessed (but haven’t seen yet to confirm) that it was a montage clip of all the spills that Thomas collects during the series’: derailments, engine bumps and shunts gone wrong, cargo spillages etc. My son was genuinely sad to see all those calamities hit Thomas at the same time; karma revisited horribly on the cheeky Number 1.

Offering sympathy and support, I calmed my son down and hit ’skip’ to move on to the next episode. Relieved, he gave me a smile and I turned around.

Both parent laughed in the front; but mine was a guilty one. Who was I to laugh at his sadness and sensitivity? Was it just plain mean? Shouldn’t I instead be proud of a son who feels so deeply, even at his tender age, for his mechanical heroes and icons? I voiced these concerns to my husband, who waved them off.

I just wish, for him, his troubles to come could all be solved as easily as pushing a ’skip’ button. But I know they won’t – and perhaps that’s where the misplaced, nervous humour came in. I was pretending for a moment.

Then the lights turned green. We took off again. Keira began complaining about something. Life took over. The moment paused, forgot.

But I didn’t.