I was a happy chap. I had just heard from a friend that I hadn't seen for years. He was based in America, but had come to London and wanted to meet up. I was thrilled and invited him round. The phone rang again. It was Chris, the father of George (one of my son's best friends) and also a good friend of mine.

“Chris!” I said, “How are you?”

“Has Luke mentioned any conversations with George?”

“Conversations?”

“Conversations about food. Apparently, Luke said George ate ‘crap food' and when George got upset, Luke called him ‘pathetic'.”

“No, Luke hasn't mentioned any conversations.”

“Well, don't you think they were offensive things to say?”

“Maybe. But they're kids. And kids often say offensive things.”

“I don't think that George would say things like that.”

“What can I say, Chris? Can't they sort it out themselves?”

“I think Luke should apologise to George.”

“What?”

A six-year friendship suddenly hung in the balance. This was a man that I thought I knew well. Our children were at school together. We entertained each other's often. We had our own dads' evenings. We had fantastic conversations - discussing teachers, other parents, other kids, politics, economics, football, sex... We had been drunk together. We had exchanged personal, intimate information. And now he was telling me to make my child apologise for saying his child ate crap food.

“Don't you think Luke should apologise?”

This was absurd. And thinking about it was bringing back memories of how upset Luke had been when he wasn't invited to George's party. Although, that's not completely true. Luke had been invited - just not to the part for the chosen few.

George's party had been in two parts. Part one was at the cinema and part two, for the chosen few, was back at George's place. The less favoured ones were to be deposited back home before the real fun began. At least, that's how Luke saw it. And, as he had always thought he was one of George's best friends, he couldn't understand why he wasn't a chosen one.

But at least Luke now knew where he stood with George. Before the party, I told him not to show anyone how upset he was. But he didn't manage it. He was in tears when Chris dropped him off.

“So...” repeated Chris, “is Luke going to apologise?”

“Well, Chris, while we're being frank, let's talk about George's party...”

Our friendship plunged into insignificance as we addressed previously unmentioned slights experienced by our sons, but also suffered by us. We stuck to our guns, took pops at each other and battled over the honour of our cherished children, until... I cracked and blubbed.

Never had I realised how effective tears could be. And man-on-man tears - what a weapon! Chris shut up. But, tragically, my tears weren't crocodile but genuine expressions of emotional frustration as I realised how madly, excessively, pitifully child-centric my life had become.

I had excuses. For five years I had been bringing up my two boys alone, nobly putting all their needs first as I tried to be a mum and a dad. I was also the wage-earner - working from home - and occasionally experiencing a quiet smugness over parents with child-neglecting careers.

But deep inside, I knew that this wasn't healthy. If a balanced life was about keeping plates spinning, I knew that most of mine had smashed on the ground. But as I blubbed, Chris confessed that perhaps he was also “over-engaged” with his child.

I told him a story about how my father was once rude to his woodwork teacher. The teacher whacked him hard with a plank. He told his dad. So his dad whacked him harder. Then he pulled his son by the ear back to the school, where his dad had a nice cup of tea with the teacher. As a child, I laughed at that story but also found it unsettling. Oh, how I've over-compensated.

Several years later I'm still friends with Chris. And at least we got our feelings out in the open. A mother friend of mine suddenly stopped receiving invitations from a friend whose daughter was friends with her child. Only much later was the reason explained - the two nine-year-olds had rowed. And two years of parental resentment had ensued.

After my row with Chris, I started to appreciate much more deeply friends who didn't have children. (How refreshing it can be not to mention kids in conversation.) I also started to appreciate friends whose children weren't at my sons' school (and who therefore provided lower-temperature friendships).

I took up an old hobby and started riding horses. I even joined a riding club - where animals, not children, were discussed. And I forced myself to step back from my sons and be less involved with their social lives.

But maybe I went too far - I finally sent them off to boarding school.

Names have been changed.

SOCIAL SURVIVAL TIPS

Don't take criticism of your child by another child as a criticism of you.

Just because children think each other's parents stink doesn't mean that you have to, too.

Empathise with your child's social pain but keep it in perspective.

If things are serious, don't let them simmer. Contact the other parent but approach with care and be aware that perfectly reasonable parents can go slightly bonkers when their child is criticised.

If the parental response really is irrational, consider whether that friendship is worth maintaining. A rift can reveal how thin a friendship is. Would you be friends if you didn't both have children?

If you lose a friend over a childrens' row, move on. Be more discriminating in future.

Children at the bottom end of big families often have more relaxed parents (they've been through all the knocks before). But they're also often less active on the child-socialising front.

A mum friend warns me never to bust up with another mother at a school. Every mother you know knows another mother. So, if you fall out with one, it can damage your friendship network.

Try to help your kids work things out themselves. Help your child to understand the other point of view.

Create child-free space in your life - especially if you are a full-time parent.

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