My visit with my parents went by in a blink and I’m flying home to Minnesota.

Ordinarily I’d be dozing a bit, or doing some work. But unfortunately that’s not in the cards tonight, for behind me are sitting The Louds.

SuperMom has been prattling on incessantly to her two adorable little angels for 1,200 miles. “Do you want a raisin, Mimi? Does Mimi want a raisin? OK, but don’t spill it. Do you want some, Campbell? OK, but don’t reach too far. OK, take a drink and then hand it back to Mama. No, I’ll hold it. Hand it back. Are you cold? Do you want a blanket? No! Put it on your lap! Do you want one of those?”

This endless monologue with ÜberMom’s two princesses is being delivered at 90 decibels, in a syrupy sing-song tone that would nauseate Barney.

I want to turn around and say, “You’ve proven to the 288 people on this plane that you’re the best mom ever in the whole wide world. Now, please shut up and sit still, and set an example for your children.”

But she probably wouldn’t hear me. She just cranked up Charlie Brown on the portable DVD player, and now her ribbon-bedecked spawn are screaming their disapproval.

I guess I should be glad that I’ll only be exposed to these people for three hours. But … Yikes!

When did parenting become an exhibition sport?

I’m reminded of a charming little rant my friend Tom (aka “The Blogfodder”) sent me last week:

Vibrating with earnestness and a gravitas that can seem eerily out of proportion to the setting, [these brilliant parents] pollute the public airspace as they loudly instruct their artisanal children on topics like sharing, Unicef or the water table—all the while glancing about furtively to make sure that people have noticed how very patient and loving and role model-y they are.

I wish I had a way of printing it out and handing it back one row.