Once upon a time, before my own children leached all the color from the world and taught me the crucial 24/7 game face, I made a similar mistake at the beginning of a red eye flight from Anchorage to Chicago, with the cutest little 2 year-old boy I didn’t know from Adam.

Within 20 minutes, I realized he had been burped from the bowels of Hell. By the time we landed, I knew without a doubt that he was the literal antichrist.

That’s a lot of freaking peek-a-boo.

I never made eye contact with another child-sized human on an airplane again.

I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, but I know I want it to be spelled right and punctuated correctly. I guess that’s something.

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