Flying to Atlanta this morning, I was exhausted, so I laid my head back on the seat and tried to get some sleep.
And then a family with two very, very loud boys sat in the three seats behind me.
I could ignore the kid kicking the back of my seat. Really, I did the same thing when I was a kid, so it’d be quite hypocritical of me to get pissed about that.
But then, just as I was finally drifting off, this brat reached over the back of my seat and grabbed my ponytail, and yanked.
And this wasn’t a two-year old. This kid was at least eight, maybe ten years old. This kid should damn well know better. His parents didn’t say boo about him doing it, either.
I was half-awake, so after letting out a slight yelp, I automatically turned around and went, “Little fucker!” under my breath. I don’t think he or his parents even heard me.
Somehow, when I heard his mother later chastising him for doing something else obnoxious, I heard her say “No, Austin!”, and things made more sense.
The only name that would have been more appropriate was Hunter. I can’t tell you how many times Mark and I heard an American parent saying “No, Hunter!” in Europe. It seemed like the trendy name for misbehaving American children.
When we finally got to Atlanta, I almost sprinted off the damn plane, just to get away from those brats, and the parents who were completely unable to control them.
Hanging out with my nephews this evening was nice, since it reminded me that not all children are spawns of Satan. But man, you should have seen me rocketing out of that plane this morning to get away from those brats.
I don’t think I would have exited that plane any faster unless it had been on fire.