![](https://cdn.mamamia.com.au/wp/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/30022451/playground1.jpg)
Image: iStock.
At the end of a recent flight, my neighbour took it upon himself to gnaw on the seat in front of me, coating the cheap leather with a thick film of saliva. It was the finale to a flight in which he also repeatedly thrust his body backwards into his seat, nearly knocking my laptop from its tray-table perch, and howled loudly, and often, about nothing in particular.
Said neighbour was a boy who seemed to be about four years old, looking like he came straight from the casting call of a Dennis the Menace reboot, with a mop of curly hair, freckles, a mischievous grin, and an almost-impressive propensity for making lives miserable.
And, yes, I admit it: As a non-parent with virtually no experience raising kids, I absolutely judged his parents—who sat by, dejected and fatigued, dark circles under their eyes, to offer the occasional meek “Stop.”
![](https://cdn.mamamia.com.au/wp/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/30100636/Bridesmaidstg-600x328.jpg)