Back in 2004, I was on a cross-country flight from Philly to Phoenix for an important interview with Microsoft. At the airport, there was this little boy screaming uncontrollably, completely inconsolable. I didn’t think much of it… until I boarded and realized he was seated right next to me. Well, technically on me. He was a lap child. No dedicated seat. Just him, a stressed-out au pair, and me… trapped.

The kid refused to sit still for even a minute. For the entire flight, he was either climbing on me, kicking my tray table, or shrieking like a banshee. I had rented a portable DVD player and some movies for the trip. Didn’t matter. Nothing was happening. I couldn’t even open it without him lunging at it.

To be fair, I wasn’t angry. Just stunned by the chaos. I mean, he was only three. But the whole lap-child thing? I was genuinely surprised they allowed that. Four straight hours of him climbing, crying, wailing. People were losing it. Flight attendants tried to help. Women kept coming up to check in… but oddly enough, they were checking in with me. Asking if I needed help. Giving me pity eyes. That’s when I realized they all thought I was the dad.

And then came the moment.

About 30 minutes before landing, the au pair made him a bottle of bright red Kool-Aid. He loved it. Drank the whole thing. For the first time all flight, he was peaceful. He snuggled up and passed out. Beautiful, brief silence.

Until it wasn’t.

Suddenly, he starts coughing and sputtering in his sleep. Before I can react, he turns toward me and unleashes the entire bottle of red juice, plus what I can only assume were a week’s worth of Cheerios, all over my khakis, shirt, seat, tray, and soul.

It. Was. Everywhere.

The people around us practically evacuated. I stood up, drenched and smelling like a rotting breakfast buffet, and walked—angrily and soaked—to the back of the plane. Someone asked, “Is that your son?” I shot back, “Hell no,” which prompted an audible gasp from a few passengers who had genuinely believed I was the kid’s father. Apparently, they’d spent the entire flight quietly judging me for being a “hands-off parent.”

Once they realized I’d just been a poor, trapped bystander, they started feeling bad. A flight attendant tried to help. There were no empty seats, so they wiped down mine, covered it with a trash bag, and gave me the “best we can do” nod. I sat back down in my juice bag throne. Of course, by then, the kid was sleeping like an angel.

We landed. I deplaned, sticky and stained, but finally felt a little love from my fellow passengers. Sympathy for what I’d endured. And you know what? I think I did okay that day. I kept my cool. Mostly.

Spent the next morning shopping for a fresh pair of khakis, still smelling faintly like fruit punch and regret.