When I was little, I hid from my mom at the department store, inside one of those round clothes racks. Just as she was about to panic, she heard me giggle. Thankfully, that was the only stunt I tried, as she put fear into me by telling me how scared she’d been.

A few years ago, my best friend’s boyfriend at the time (now her husband), had planned for her sister, brother-in-law, their kids (her nephews) and my husband and myself to go to a restaurant for dinner, because he planned to propose to her. It was a Mexican-themed restaurant, where they have live Mariachi, and a specialty dessert called “Fried Icecream,” which is my friend’s favorite. The plan was to give the waiters the ring to put in the center of the ice cream, with “Will You Marry Me?” written in fudge around the edge of the plate. My cue to hit the record button the video camera was when the Mariachi came over and began to sing. Well, the second the waiter placed the ice cream down in front of my friend, her two obnoxious little nephews, around 7 and 5, began shouting, “I WANT ICE CREAM!” in unison, at the top of their lungs. I kept turning my head to give them the evil eye. Meanwhile, my friend’s sister was fuckin’ oblivious to her two monsters howling for ice cream and totally ruining the moment. My husband took the camera from me to keep recording, while I tried to calm my friend’s nephews. They wouldn’t stop screaming, as my friend burst into tears and accepted the proposal. If you watch the video, you can see me grabbing the plate of ice cream and lunging it at her oldest nephew, while shouting, “Here’s your fucking ice cream, you brat!” I almost cracked his forehead open with the plate. I was so pissed. I even told her sister to either get them under control or leave. Ah, memories. I also have an IKEA horror story involving those two, but I’ll spare you.

Meanwhile, my Goddaughter, who is now two years old, should not be allowed in public until she is at least 6 or 7, because she is extremely spoiled and throws tantrums over the slightest things. Yet, my friend still insists on taking her everywhere, knowing full well that we always end up dealing with a mortifying meltdown that includes, screaming, flailing, kicking, punches, and other horrors. We were at a craft store, shopping for some supplies. My friend always puts her daughter in the back part of the shopping carts, so that she can stand up, sit and move around as she pleases. I always say that it’s dangerous, but she doesn’t listen. Anyway, the entire walk around the store, my god daughter kept reaching out and pulling things off shelves, ripping merchandise open, tossing things to the floor, filling the cart with random items. When we walked past a dollar section that had these coloring pads with markers, my friend grabbed one and placed it in the cart. My god daughter reached for it, but my friend told her, “No, we have to pay for it first. Wait until we get to the car. Then you can have it.” Yeah right. My god daughter snatched it up, ripped open the plastic packaging and proceeded to scribble all over the pad, herself, her pastel pink dress… with a NAVY BLUE marker! My friend had a fit and yanked the doodle pad out of her hands. My god daughter began hitting her and drawing all over HER clothes, whle screaming, “NO MOMMY! MINE!!! MIIIIIIIINE!!!!” and sobbing hysterically. About a million pairs of eyes turned to stare. I wanted to die.

We were shopping for sandals, and at our second store, when she found some she wanted – the gaudiest, ugliest Dora sandals I’d ever seen. I could go against what I want and buy Dora (ugh!), but not ones with a GIANT Dora face surrounded by glitter. When I told her no, she went crazy – screaming, crying, just nuts. I wanted to leave, but there was just NO way I was going through that another day! Then she smacked my arm, and (shades of Alyson’s problem) she looked at me with hate and said “I’m telling my Grandma!”. I said fine, your Grandma is my Mommy and she’ll tell you you’re a very bad girl and you will be in BIG trouble!

But the worst travel-wise was not his fault. On our way back home from Christmas in my hometown, he started barfing about 5 minutes after we took off. And continued throwing up off and on throughout the three hour flight. We were both covered in puke, the entire tiny little plane smelled like puke, and all I could do was cry. Poor thing was so miserable and I felt like such an asshole mom for having him on that plane even though I couldn’t have known ahead of time.