The Flight from Hell: Surviving Seat-Kicking Kids and Airborne Chaos
How it Accidentally Sponsored My Next Holiday
I had to make an unexpected dash back to Perth for business, and the family catch-up and seeing Dad turn 93 were just a bonus. Ninety-three, by the way. At this stage, I reckon he’s just competing with the Queen’s corgis for longevity.
Because the trip was last-minute, my airline choices were, well, let’s say “financially humbling.” Enter AirAsia, the budget carrier you choose when you’ve accepted that personal space is a luxury and in-flight comfort is just a rumour. Thankfully, they fly out of Da Nang, where we live, with a quick stop in Kuala Lumpur before heading to Perth. The price was right, expectations were low, and our only goal was getting there.
The Perth leg was on an Airbus A321, a plane so snug it felt like someone had built it based on Ikea’s “space-saving hacks” video. At 155cm, I can usually wedge myself in without too much drama, but my poor taller husband had his knees practically up his nostrils. If there were ever a competition called “Extreme Budget Airline Yoga,” he’d have taken gold.
The flight itself was surprisingly smooth. No turbulence, no delays, no drama. We touched down in Perth at 5 am, smug in the belief we’d beaten the budget travel gods. Then reality hit. We stepped off the plane, having left a balmy 32°C in Da Nang, and walked straight into 2.2°C. TWO. POINT. TWO. I was wearing a thin linen shirt, otherwise known as fashion optimism, and it offered about as much warmth as a polite shrug.
However, we did need to return the same way.
After a productive week of back-to-back business meetings with a bonus of family time, it was time to reverse the journey.
One of the highlights was our eldest son, who has always been first in line for any new shiny gadget, had just bought himself a smoker for his new house. Naturally, he had to show it off, which worked out brilliantly for us because he treated us to the kind of slow-cooked brisket dreams are made of.
Now, keep in mind, we haven’t had proper beef in eight whole months living in Vietnam; it’s about as easy to find here as a quiet tourist-free beach. So, when that first bite hit, it was like a religious experience. The meat practically dissolved in my mouth. I swear, I saw actual angels. The flavour Out. Of. This. World.
And because my son is an overachiever in every sense, he packed us up some leftovers to take home for dinner. Which would have been perfect except for one minor issue: my husband. Let’s just say “sharing” isn’t his gift. The man guards’ leftover brisket the way a dragon guards’ treasure. I’m pretty sure I saw him count the slices. Twice.
Perth Winter & Oodie Withdrawal
After spending a week in Perth’s version of winter, I can confidently confirm one thing: I hate the cold. Absolutely, passionately, deep in my soul hate it. Sorry, my Canadian friends, I will visit in the autumn or spring. My poor knees, even though they’re platinum (yes, technically an upgrade) still felt like they were about to seize up and file a formal complaint.
I spent most of my time at home wrapped in my Oodie, which, if you don’t own one, is basically like living inside a wearable doona. Honestly, it should come with a warning label: “May cause separation anxiety when removed.” If you’re visiting Perth in winter, don’t bother with fashion. Pack an Oodie. Trust me.
And as for the good Western Australian red (another thing we have missed in Vietnam), everyone swore it would warm me right up. Useless. Lovely to drink, yes, but about as effective against the cold as whispering positive affirmations at a snowstorm. By the second glass, I’d accepted my fate: I was destined to remain a stylishly wrapped human popsicle until my flight back to Da Nang.
If only freezing in Perth had been the worst part of this journey. But oh no, fate had other plans. And they came in the form of two small humans and parents with attitude seated directly behind me on the return flight.
The Calm Before the Storm
Our return flight, once again with AirAsia (because apparently, we enjoy suffering), was scheduled to leave Perth for KL at 5:10 am. Which meant the delightful 3-hour international check-in rule had us leaving the house at 1 am. At that hour, nothing feels real. The streets are empty, the air is freezing, and you start questioning all your life choices that led you here.
Now, I’m a notoriously bad sleeper. Two to three hours a night is a good night for me, so staying up late barely registers on my radar. My husband, on the other hand, treats his eight hours like a sacred ritual. Miss it, and he turns into a malfunctioning robot with a low-battery warning light. The only upside he can fall asleep anywhere instantly.
But not this time. Oh no. On this flight, sleep was not on the menu. Neither for him. Nor for me. Nor I suspect, for anyone sitting within a three-row radius of the tiny chaos gremlins we were about to meet.
While waiting for our flight to board, I did what every seasoned traveller does: people watch. This is the unofficial pre-boarding game where you size up your fellow passengers and quietly wonder, “Who will I be trapped in a flying tin can with for the next six hours?”
The line-up was fairly predictable: people like us shuffling around, a handful of fresh-faced backpackers about to learn that budget travel is 90% suffering, plenty of Malaysians heading home, and, of course, a few families. Families always make me a little nervous, not because I dislike kids, but because kids on planes are basically a game of roulette. Sometimes you get angels colouring quietly in the corner. Other times well, let’s just say you start wishing planes still had smoking sections, so you’d have somewhere to hide.
Now, let me be clear: I am a parent. I travelled the world with my two kids from when they were tiny. And my biggest fear back then was always how they’d behave on a flight. I went into every trip like I was preparing for battle snacks, games, books, threats, bribes you name it. I was ready for every scenario. I’ve even written a whole article about that, which you can read if you need survival tips.
But this time I wasn’t the parent. I was the innocent bystander. And as fate would have it, my number was about to come up.
That’s when I noticed them.
A family doing slow laps around the departure gate: Mum, Dad, a girl of about seven, two boys maybe five and four and, as a bonus, two grandparents in tow.
“Perfect,” I thought. Four adults, three kids. This should be fine.
Oh, how wrong I was.
The boys were, let’s call it, enthusiastic. A little loud, a little restless, but nothing unusual for excited kids about to get on a plane. They were darting around the seats, chattering at full volume, and making sure the entire gate knew of their existence. Still, no real drama. Not yet.
Now, I’m not one to judge (ha!), but these two were mini versions of their dad. Everything matched: the low-riding “rapper” outfits, the attitude, the tiny gold hoops glinting proudly from both ears like they’d just stepped out of a toddler music video. I half expected them to start dropping beats in the duty-free lounge.
But I remained optimistic. Surely, I told myself, with four adults wrangling three small humans, this would be under control.
It was not fine. It was the opposite of fine.
I always pre-book my seats. It’s one of my travel non-negotiables. For this flight, we were in row 16, just behind the emergency exits, which I consider prime real estate close enough to the bathrooms if needed, not too far back to be last off the plane, and far enough forward to avoid the chaos zone. Perfect.
Back when I travelled with my kids, I always chose seats in a completely different area, somewhere they could bother the fewest number of strangers possible. A small courtesy, right. This particular family had missed that memo.
The horror on my face must’ve been obvious when I reached our pre-booked, paid extra for seats, only to discover that we were sitting directly in front of the family I’d spotted at the gate. Out of all the rows on this aircraft, fate decided to play a cruel little game with me.
The seating layout was baffling. The grandparents had scored the row in front of me window and the middle seats with an empty aisle seat just sitting there, taunting me with its potential. “Perfect,” I thought. “Once we’re airborne, surely one of the kids will move up there.”
Dad was over on the opposite side of the plane, seated peacefully with his perfectly behaved daughter (who, I might add, barely made a peep the entire flight). And directly behind us, Mum and the two boys. Both are right next to each other.
And for reasons I will never understand, she chose to sit on the aisle and put the boy’s side by side. Rookie mistake. A big one. Any parent knows you never seat two small brothers together on a long-haul flight. It’s like placing two sticks of dynamite in the same box and then casually lighting a scented candle.
The Locker Land Grab
And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, it did. They’d already claimed every inch of overhead locker space above our row. Every. Single. Bit. Bags, jackets, a small country’s worth of toys, you name it, they’d stuffed it up there.
At this point, I knew two things for certain:
- The travel gods hate me.
- This flight was going to be long.
And then… it began.
Before we’d even left the ground, the boys kicked off their opening act: The Great Window Shade & Tray Table War of Row 17. Up. Down. Up. Down. Click. Slam. Click. Slam. Over and over, like a budget airline percussion section.
“Muuuum, I want mine up!”
“Muuuum, he’s got his down!”
“Muuuum, why can’t I put my tray out?”
Mum, sitting comfortably on the aisle, barely looked up. She just kept repeating the same line, over and over, like a broken record:
“Not until we’re in the air.”
“No. Not until we’re in the air.”
“Because we’re not in the air.”
And that was it. No distraction tactics. No calming voices. No concern for the rest of us sitting within earshot. Just a casual shrug and a vibe of, “Not my problem, people.”
At this point, the flight attendants were trying to do the safety briefing on life jackets, exits, the whole show, but their voices were no match for the symphony behind me. I caught maybe two words of it: “seatbelt” and “good luck.”
Then came the iPad Meltdown.
Apparently, not being able to use it right this second was a personal attack on their human rights. The wailing reached a pitch that I’m pretty sure could be picked up by air traffic control. I half expected the captain to make an announcement apologising to the entire cabin.
And Dad? Dad was parked safely on the other side of the plane with his perfectly behaved daughter, pretending this circus wasn’t his problem. Every so often, he glanced over at the chaos, then went straight back to his peace and quiet.
I sat there silently mourning the fact that I’d left my Oodie behind in Perth. At least inside it, I could’ve hidden from reality.
To be honest, it wasn’t the noise or even the occasional shouting match between the two boys that got to me, although yes, they were loud. The real torture was the constant knocking of my seat. Kick. Thump. Bang. Repeat. Over. And over. And over.
I’d come prepared, too. I’d downloaded a few movies, lined up my headphones, and planned to zone out for six blissful hours. But no, every time I tried to relax, THUD. My seat jolted like I was sitting on a mechanical bull at the rodeo. Reading? Forget it. Watching movies? Not a chance. I spent more time adjusting my screen than actually seeing it.
Meanwhile, the grandparents sitting in front of me were living in some alternate reality. Earbuds in, fully detached, they didn’t so much as flinch, let alone offer to wrangle one of the boys. They might as well have been on another flight entirely.
And Dad? Still on the other side of the plane with his angelic, perfectly behaved daughter, the quiet one who barely made a sound. Occasionally, he’d glance over, see the chaos, and then… look straight back at his seat-back magazine.
The Breaking Point
After four relentless hours of seat-kicking, tray-slamming, and several failed attempts to politely ask Mum to rein in her boys, my normally calm, placid husband finally snapped.
Now, this man never snaps. He’s the steady one. The “just ignore it, it’ll be fine” guy. I’m the feisty one in this marriage, usually; if anyone’s going to cause a scene at 35,000 feet, it’s me. But not this time.
He turned to me, muttered something about how this would “make a great TikTok video,” and, in full plain view of everyone, started filming. Not exactly the smartest move…naming and shaming mid-flight isn’t a good look and, yes, probably the wrong thing to do but… he did willingly show the deletion from his phone when demanded.
That’s when Dad, who, until this point, had been sitting comfortably on the other side of the plane with his perfectly behaved, silent daughter, pretending none of this was his problem, suddenly found his voice.
And wow, did he find it.
He jumped up, stormed down the aisle, and launched into my husband like he’d been personally insulted by the universe. Loud. Aggressive. Full of colourful threats that made it abundantly clear where the boys had learned their, let’s say, spirited approach to communication.
My husband, bless him, stayed calm and measured while I sat there simmering, mentally composing my comeback speech just in case. After some tense back and forth, the video was deleted, Dad stomped back to his seat, and we were left with the same chaos as before.
The boys, oh, they didn’t miss a beat. Seat-kicking, tray-slamming, whining, a relentless masterclass in in-flight torture continued.
Sweet, Useless Silence
Around 30 minutes before we touched down in Kuala Lumpur, they finally fell asleep. Both. Out cold. Tiny angel faces. Perfectly silent.
I would love to say I felt relief. But mostly, I felt rage. Four and a half hours of chaos, and they give me 30 minutes of peace, I can’t even enjoy.
And yes, I considered leaning back and “accidentally” bumping their seats. Not because I’m cruel. Just because, well… justice.
Trust me, a little preparation goes a long way. Because if you don’t prepare your kids for the flight, someone like me will end up writing a blog post about you.
And here’s the twist: Jack, Roman, Mum, and Dad don’t know I’m a travel blogger. And this post? Well, it might just go viral. So, while they spent six hours turning my ‘quiet, budget-friendly flight’ into an endurance test, I was gathering material that could end up funding my next holiday.
So yes, Jack, Roman, Mum, and Dad take that one.
Tips for Parents Travelling with Kids
Look, I get it. Travelling with little ones is hard. I’ve done it myself many times. But after surviving my six-hour flight from hell, here are a few tips that might save everyone’s sanity (including the strangers sitting near you):
- Prepare them – Tell them exactly what’s going to happen and when. Take-off, seatbelts, why the tray table isn’t their new toy, and why the iPad isn’t available until you’re in the air. Surprises are fun at birthdays, not at 35,000 feet.
- Pack entertainment – Anything and everything. Books, colouring, puzzles, games… heck, even a round of Snap is better than watching your child audition for “Best Seat Kicker 2025.”
- Snacks are gold – Bring enough to feed a small army. Sweet, savoury, crunchy, chewy — snacks are currency when negotiating peace treaties mid-flight.
- Distraction is survival – Bribes are not only acceptable, but they’re also encouraged. Stickers, surprise toys, screen time — whatever works. We’re not aiming for parenting awards here; we’re aiming for a quiet cabin.
- Ask a doctor – If you’ve got especially energetic kids, have a chat with your GP before you go. They might have tips to help make the journey easier for everyone on board.
Travelling with kids doesn’t have to be a nightmare. A little preparation, a few distractions, and a bag full of snacks can make the difference between a smooth flight and well my flight.
And remember you’re not just travelling with your family; you’re sharing a flying tin can with hundreds of others. A little preparation shows consideration for everyone around you. Trust me, the person in the seat in front of your kids will silently thank you, possibly while writing a blog post about you.
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About the Author:
Sheridan-Leigh is the passionate voice behind the MyLifestyle Blog, where life is celebrated with vibrant stories and insightful travel tips. With a deep love for slow travel, she believes in truly experiencing each destination, creating connections beyond the surface. Her blog is a blend of personal stories, expert advice, and a philosophy that life is for living to the fullest and is rich with opportunities for growth and adventure. Join Sheridan-Leigh as she shares her journey, inspiring others to embrace life, travel deeply, and live fully.
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