A bright breeze whooshed through Niblet’s cozy room.
Niblet popped out of bed. One sock snagged on his tail, and his block tower crashed with a clatter. “Too much!” he blurted.
At breakfast, Niblet tried to pour berry oats.
But the spoon slipped. The bowl tipped. Blue berries bounced under the table like tiny marbles.
Niblet stomped. Then the spoon pinged on the floor, and he covered his ears.
A grown-up knelt beside him. “Let’s look at what your body is doing,” they said.
Niblet pressed his paws to the table and listened to the leaves swish at the window.
“My hands are squeezing,” he said. “My feet want to kick. Everything is scratchy and noisy.”
The grown-up slid over a cool cup of water. “That feeling has a name sometimes,” they said. “Frustrated.”
Later, on the forest path, Niblet tugged at the zipper on his little bag.
The zipper stuck, then zipped his fur for one silly second—zzip! “Oh, come ON!” yelped Niblet.
Leaves skittered past. Niblet stopped, took a breath, and said, “I’m frustrated. Can you help me?”
The grown-up gently freed the zipper.
Then Niblet pulled it closed the rest of the way with one slow, careful tug.
The piney air felt softer. By home, a stack of sticks toppled with a crash.
Niblet looked at the mess and said, “I’m frustrated,” before the crash could grow bigger. And the day felt bright in a quieter way.
