Once upon a time, children were seen and not heard. Now they’re heard, seen, screaming, rolling on the floor of Tesco, flinging snacks down the fruit aisle, and using public spaces like they’re starring in Junior Gladiators. And what are the parents doing? Usually smiling blankly, mumbling “They’re just tired” — as if that excuses the chaos erupting in aisle three.
The Public Menace in Miniature Form
It’s always in cafés. One child’s taken their shoes off, one is licking the window, and another is doing laps while wailing about the injustice of not being allowed cake for breakfast. And mum or dad? They’re either filming it for social media or staring off into the middle distance like they’re trying to remember what silence feels like.
I’m all for giving kids space to grow, but how about giving the rest of us space to exist without being subjected to airborne Pom Bears and volume levels usually reserved for fire alarms and boy racers?
Planes, Trains and Parental Abdication
There’s a special place in hell reserved for people who let their children go feral on public transport — especially planes. Why is it, the second a family boards a flight, their children become everyone else’s problem?
We’ve got seat kicking, snack launching, top-of-the-lungs screeching, and aisle gymnastics — all while mum’s three G&Ts in and dad’s watching Fast & Furious 17 with noise-cancelling headphones. Meanwhile, the poor cabin crew are one tantrum away from requesting an emergency landing.
If I wanted interactive entertainment and spilled apple juice, I’d have flown Ryanair and paid extra for the toddler upgrade.
Business Class, Not Nursery Class
You know what the word “business” doesn’t include? Peppa Pig on an iPad at full volume. And yet, there I am, having paid more for a seat that doesn’t involve eating my own knees, trying to get five hours of sleep on a long-haul flight — only to be serenaded by the dulcet tones of a toddler having an existential crisis over an in-flight bread roll.
It’s called Business Class. Not Crèche Class. Not Family Movie Time Class. Not “Let’s scream into a pillow for seven hours” Class. The clue is in the name. You’re not on business. You’re on your third family holiday of the year with your gremlin, and I am once again denied basic peace.
And yes, I know your little darling “has every right to be there.”
So do I.
But I’m not kicking the seat, watching Frozen 2 without headphones, or launching raisins across the cabin.
You want to teach your kids luxury? Start with how not to be a nightmare in a confined space with strangers who paid extra to avoid this exact situation.
The Diagnosis Deluge
Now, apparently, every child has ADHD, ASD, PDA, ODD — probably GPS too, just to track where they’ve left their manners. Look — I get it, some kids genuinely need support. But not every little darling melting down in Poundland is neurodivergent. Some of them are just undisciplined.
Maybe it’s not ADHD. Maybe it’s just bedtime, structure, and someone actually saying “no” once in a while.
There’s a difference between supporting needs and using them as an excuse for little Alfie to turn Wetherspoons into his own soft play centre while you tell the world on Facebook how brave you are. There’s a difference between understanding your child’s needs and using them as a free pass to let chaos reign. And no, giving them a screen isn’t parenting — it’s sedation.
Reproduction ≠ Achievement
And can we all please stop applauding people for simply managing to reproduce?
“We’re expecting!” Well done. So are rabbits. It’s not a medal-worthy feat — it’s biology.
Then there’s the baby shower, the gender reveal (blue smoke and burnout tyres), the scan photos, the countdown chalkboards, the customised sleepsuits, and the birth vlog. What happened to just getting on with it without the need for a confetti cannon?
The only thing more ridiculous than celebrating conception like it’s a Nobel Prize is expecting everyone else to be just as thrilled as you are when your toddler sneezes directly into their hands and wipes it on the tablecloth.
It’s not very impressive and you will reconsider when you realise the baby will spend the first year crying, pooping, and ruining everyone else’s brunch.
Children, Benefits and the Benidorm Problem
Let’s be honest — if you can’t afford kids, don’t keep having them.
I’ve got significantly more sympathy for a panting Labrador in a hot car than I do for a couple outside Poundland with four under-5s and no nappies between them.
And then they moan about holiday prices in August — like the school calendar is some sort of state secret. You knew when the school holidays were before you got busy under the WKD disco lights.
Cue the cultural defence: “We’re taking them out of school for life experience!”
Yes, because nothing says enriching education quite like the Sticky Vicky Show, £5 Full English Breakfast, and watching someone in a novelty hat vomit next to the sunbeds.
I’d have more sympathy if the holiday didn’t include a laminated menu, cheap bars open at 8am and a toddler melting down because LIDL España doesn’t stock Quavers.
Final Thought (Before I Need a Lie Down)
Parenting is hard — fair. But if you’re going to bring your kids into public, parent. Teach them. Control them. Discipline them. Don’t outsource the job to strangers, screens, or society.
You chose parenthood — don’t turn it into a spectator sport for the unwilling.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the nearest adults-only location — preferably one without crayons, tantrums, or juice boxes.
