Blame parents for bratty kids

Bratty children. O the horror story that has no preface and prologue. The gift that keeps on giving. Children. Sigh. I love 'em.

There is no antidote to the madness that stems from a process that has method to it. Behold the mother who continues sipping her mochaccino, delicately nibbling on bran-bread, chicken-breast sandwich, laughing indelicately with her gaggle of buddies, while her five-year-old runs amok in the cosy, over-priced cafe, screeching like a magpie, picking up knives and forks from tables he finds unoccupied. Soon, the picked-up cutlery is used as drum-sticks (not the food), loud, out-of-tune on the table closest to you. And as you and others like you who have children who don't run around like hedgehogs in the miaddle of an unlit road, you roll your eyes, muttering stuff, inexplicably inaudible to the oblivious mother. Nah, nothing changes. The brat keeps up his run-and-shout mission throughout your meaningful conversation on world peace, and Chinese-US geopolitical dynamic, over tall caramel lattes, and delectable blueberry cheesecake.
Bratty children. O the horror story that has no preface and prologue. The gift that keeps on giving. Children. Sigh. I love 'em. Of all shapes, sizes, dispensations, and propensities that make you lose your cool faster than you can chant the Art of Living mantra for relaxation of nerves. All my life, from childhood through teens, the turbulent 20s and 30s, and somber 40s I've loved children. You know one of those females who in five minutes have a child eat out of her hand, literally, coochie-coo-calm any crying toddler, and give the right advice on how to avoid-bad-relationships to teenagers. Ergo, when I bemoan the phenomenon of children who in an Ekta Kapoor soap would be the secret reason two happy people part acrimoniously after a long fought-out battle over child-custody - the irony of that is beyond adjectives - believe me readers, all this comes from a pained heart. In a more politically incorrect lexicon, I'd say, a fuming mind. Yes, some children are such brats that in Charles Dickens time, they would all be packed to some awful boarding school, the horror tales of which would make David Copperfield look like a happy kid in a McDonald's ad.
They are everywhere, these bratty children. As you walk through the crowded aisle of your favourite supermarket, maneuvering your laden cart through the crowd of hefty limbs, and snail-speed shoppers, there's a sudden jab in your left ankle. And as you turn, all screechy "Are-you-blind?" you see a tiny person, defiantly cheeky, the four-year-old in charge of his baby shopping cart, while the mother spray-tests Axe for her absentee teenaged son, blissfully nonchalant to the notice in bold caps on the shelf: "Please do not spray-test." As you realise the redundancy of the expectation of a sorry that ain't coming, you mutter a few words, balancing your skimmed milk and brown sugar on your load of groceries most of which would rot in your refrigerator after five days of healthy eating.
They are in the restaurant you choose to have a gossipy lunch with your bunch of girlfriends. Other than the odd Aylanto in Lahore that has a demarcated area for children under 12, your stars would be in a propitious alignment if you manage to finish your grilled prawns and bread pudding in peace without having a child run through the restaurant making noises only Martians - in those sci-fi fantasies - would comprehend. As you glower, the restaurant manager and waiters look sheepish after having told the parents of the child twice - and in vain -- to keep him/her restricted to their table, a big serving of French fries, and an oversized soda. Someday, the hazard of keeping children happy on fast food and fizzy drinks would be discovered as the principal reason for their running wild amidst business-class aisles and long legs in Manolo stilettos.
Don't get me started on the crying children most of you've been ill-fated enough to share a long flight with. Once I used to tag them "PIA-brats", the unruly creatures you see in Pakistan's once-very-remarkable-and-now-reached-the-many-complaints-and-a-few-passengers-level airline. Now they are everywhere, going all over. Forget about having a sedated sleep on your 16-hour flight to New York after you're escorted like a VIP to your very fancy, very high-priced seat in the club class of one of those splendid Gulf airlines. The two-year-old in the next aisle, head-to-toe in latest Burberry, is crying due to some unidentifiable pain, while the older one thinks the empty seat behind you is a perfect spot for his game of commandoes gone rogue.
Children will be children, and I'll love them despite the kicks, and the shouts, and the running while I massage my temples with my chronic headache going awry. I point my rant on their parents. I hold you and not the child responsible for turning my happy coffee hour into a nightmare. You remind me of the Maxwell-Manchesters in Audrey Hepburn's Two for the Road. Watch the film, and as you cringe looking at the little Ruthie, take a long, long look at the angelic monster seated next to you. And then without further ado, open your overpriced Mac to order some child-rearing books, while answering emails and WhatsApp texts.
The author is a Lahore-based columnist