WHAT THE WORLD NEEDS NOW . . .

I am this much of a nerd: I'm sitting in front of my departure gate at LaGuardia Airport at 7:15 in the morning, sipping coffee, munching a bran muffin, people-watching as usual. I'm surrounded by the usual crowd of suits: the guy across from me looks a bit like a cleaner, smarter Jean-Claude Van Damme and he's on his way to Washington, D.C. to "close the deal up." The guy two seats over from him looks like a lawyer -- we can spot each other anywhere -- and he's desperately trying to catch some zzz's, even while sitting up. But he's aggravated by the lady sitting next to me.

She is a tall, big-boned woman with curly, dyed-carrot-colored hair. She's wearing a pink baby-T shirt that is about four sizes too small and has a messy tattoo emblazoned on her left bicep, the name of one of the three children she is trying to corral around her. She's also cursing a blue streak and slapping her kids around. Ouch.

The baby's milk bottle seems to have leaked through the woman's backpack. "FUCK!" she yells. The middle child, a girl about 4 years old, whispers "fuck." The lady starts whining to her 4-year-old about the leaky and messy milk bottle; the 4-year-old turns to her 8-year-old brother for comfort, hugging him from behind. He turns, pushes her away so that she falls and says "shit." The lady is haphazardly unpacking her backpack in an effort to find the troublesome bottle. "Who the fuck did this? Shit, shit, shit. The fucking bottle. Now the baby has no fucking milk. Shit, this is the last thing I need today." The little girl and little boy just stand off to the side, watching their mother have a mini-meltdown. The boy approaches his mother, almost gingerly, as if to say "can I help?" Instead, she turns, glares at him, growls "what the fuck are you looking at?" and smacks him upside the head. For no apparent reason. His jaw clenches and he turns away, extending a hand to his little sister so they can take a few steps away and play by themselves.

The lady continues her meltdown. Something has dropped from her backpack onto the ground and her middle daughter points it out. "I don't fucking care about that right now," she states. "I don't care either," says the little girl, rolling her eyes but turning away with a frown on her face. Finally, the lady has sat down and composed herself. She looks so, so weary; so, so unhappy. As her children go up to the window to watch the airplanes, she stays in her seat, supervising -- or rather, screaming -- from afar. "Do not fucking push the baby!" she scolds her older daughter. Her son points to a plane, declares "I want to be there." "Fucking get on it then and see what happens to you," his mother replies with a glare. God, sometimes I hate people-watching.

The poor lawyer, trying to sleep -- he has given up and is now reading his newspaper with a sleepy look on his face. The guy flying to D.C. is watching the scene with as much uncertainty and near-disdain as I am. And me ... well, I'm horrified. I know it's hard raising children, much less caring for them even for a few hours by yourself. I know it's hard to always be patient. I know that parenting classes are few and far-between. I know that traveling with three young children must be stressful and hectic. I know that sometimes, there is a temptation to lash out, yell a "shut up" just to get some temporary relief, push someone -- even a child -- away just so you have a few seconds to yourself.

But I also know that I would be embarrassed to treat anyone, especially my own children, like this, especially in public. At least in public, I would control myself. At least in public, I would not curse in front of my children, or curse at all -- it's so tasteless and loses its effect and meaning when over-used anyway. At least in public, I would not smack my children -- I sit here now helpless, wondering what, if anything, I should do or say, but nothing stops another, bolder, braver person from speaking up to defend these small children, if only for the 15 minutes that they are in each other's lives.

I don't know what's going on in this lady's life. I don't know why she's alone with her three kids at an airport at 7:15 a.m. on a Thursday. I don't know anything about her. But I feel for her; I feel for her kids. And I just hope and pray that their day gets better ...