"In America, there are two classes of travel - first class, and with children."

So says Robert Benchley, and he must be right, what with all those Airport books and all. Oh wait - no, that was Peter, his son. But apples falling from trees, and all that jazz should cover me here.

Anyway, point being, he KNOWS. And we know too, having traversed the country 3 times with Otter in tow.

Admittedly, each trip has posed its own challenges, from (in retrospect) the seemingly simple feat of over-nursing while our plane circled the airport for 40 minutes on our first trek out, to the daunting task of having to go to the bathroom while traveling solo with SB, to now - a 3-hour delay at the airport with an over-tired, over-hyped, very mobile 15-month-old.

Our extra time in Newark allows me the opportunity to socialize as a member of that exclusive club - the "with child" set. As I do laps around the waiting area, I meet every carry-on dog, every family with children - including the brat giving a beat-down to the public phone while her harassed mother gives a time-out to her brother by sitting him in the seat next to her and threatening to not let him go to the bathroom, or the family with three kids (Luca, Guido, Franco - or something likewise out of the Sopranos) whose mother confesses to me that she's nervous about boarding the plane because she's spied that man - you know, the one that looks vaguely Middle-Eastern, who I suspect is actually from India.

But no journey, no matter how difficult can be as bad as it is for the Family From Hell. They sit down near us, the poster-family for what I hope to never become. In this play of domestic horrors, each member plays a part:

Dad is the Bruiser - you know, the guy who looks like his idea of a good time is getting good and pissed at the local, then starting a bar brawl, before heading home to let his wife know what's what? He gets off on being mad, feels superior about his hard lot in life, and says things like "Can I trust you with that (re: the luggage)?" and "I'm not on the plane with you," to his wife. Really Bruiser, you're not? You're gonna live at gate 34 of Newark International?

Mom is the Passive Aggressive - half beaten into submission by Bruiser, half determined to get in the last jab in spite of it all, no matter how underhanded the methods. Let hyperactive Clawboy (see below) "accidentally" find the Oreo's in Bruiser's bag? Why not? At least the Juicy Couture sweatsuit, giant rock and Gucci bag help her remember she's still on top.

Son is Clawboy - because his favorite toy, one of those claws that pull toys out of a vending machine, is in his backpack, and he keeps taking it out and trying to grab everything, including strangers waiting at the gate with it. He's about 6, but still uses a pacifier (which, after he finally runs out of steam, Bruiser pulls out of his mouth, starting the reign of insanity over again, only so that Bruiser can get exasperated and threaten not to get on the plane again). He is a bully - the kid who uses his size to intimidate, and failing that, whines something awful. Watching him, I vacillate between pitying him and wanting to beat him senseless with that claw.

Dog is the Hapless Victim - of course they have a dog - one of those tiny furry yappers that get carried onto planes in designer hand-bags. Normally I loathe these dogs - call me a sizist if you will - but in this case I fear that Clawboy has reigned so much terror on this poor canine that when she finally growls at him I secretly pray that she'll bite, preferably taking a finger from the claw-wielding hand.

We sit there, and can't look away from from the drama, alternately repulsed and fascinated, as this family continually cycles through their circle of mutual hatred. Bree and I lean in to each other, assessing and reassessing which of them we hate the most, an honor that keeps shifting, depending on which of them is speaking at any particular moment. "I really hope they sit right next to us," I say. "That would really make this flight perfect." How do people live like this?