It was worse than a Stephen King Novel. Eight hours from Milan to Boston. A newborn in the seat to my right. His 2-year old sister two seats to the right. One in the seat in front of me. Two other children (same family, apparently) in the row behind. One more, two rows behind me. All age 3 or under.
For Goodness sake, if you’re gonig to have kids, don’t travel with them until they’re old enough to handle the experience. The kids are miserable. The little girl sat in her seat before takeoff crying sadly, “I’m scared. I’m scared.” My heart almost broke. Airplanes are also notorious breeding grounds for germs. People bring viruses and bacteria from the world over and happily share recycled air for half a day. Kids–already prone to sickness as they build their immune systems–are innocent victims of our cosmopolitan lifestyle.
Leave the kids home. It’s a mercy for the kids!
(Have I mentioned that it’s also a mercy for the rest of us? This morning, I loved kids. Now I’m rapidly becoming an advocate for population control. As much as I advocate community, I’m trying really, really hard not to point out how much nicer it is for the other passengers as well. Kids are cute, but, well, they yell. And cry. And poop. And vomit. And extrude. And spit. And lots of other things. And when they do it in an enclosed metal tube for eight hours, the charm wears off for those of us not genetically related to the adorable little people.)