I was waiting at a Melbourne parking station last week when the frazzled woman in front of me suddenly decided her kids were the devil's spawn.
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At the top of her lungs, she yelled at her little boy not to leave the booth under threat of a size eight to the rear.
I was tempted to point out her 18-month-old was already playing an impressive game of chicken in the car park but I didn't think it wasn't worth fanning the flames.
Then her daughter was screamed at for getting the change out of the machine. Apparently her job was to only hold mummy's coffee.
I was again tempted to point out she was female and could multi-task but by this stage even I was frozen in terror. (I was also tempted to point out it may have been time to step away from the caffeine.)
When the young girl asked her mother to pipe down, the woman swung to me and yelled that she couldn't care less that people could hear her.
I was - you guessed it - tempted to point out they could probably hear her in China.
She also glared at me like she expected me to catch her disease and starting yelling at my pair. I didn't because I actually like my kids. That's why I had them in the first place.
In complete contrast, when we entered our place of business, I had to sit through an hour of a doting dad taking photographs and video of his baby daughter on his phone.
I was, yet again, very tempted to point out she probably looked exactly the same as yesterday but he may not have wanted to miss a millimetre's hair growth.
Now I'm nowhere near the mother of the year. When my daughter complained my notes to her teachers were under par compared to her friends' mothers, I just pointed out I never claimed to be a good mum.
However, I don't scream at them in public so maybe I'm an ok one.