The Hour

Mum and dad were happily wandering around the shopping centre in Perth when their little boy investigated the car door. He is rewarded by the sight of thousands of red balls pouring everywhere. It's worth watching again. It's worth watching again. here.

No doubt delighted by his morning’s work, the toddler was probably mystified why his parents suddenly wanted to finish their shopping trip and get him out of there… fast.

But I felt for the parents. Who hasn’t been mortified by something their little one has done or caused to happen?

I still cringe when I think of the whole day I spent with a baby’s bib Velcroed to the back of my cardigan. No wonder I got strange looks.

Then there was the time my small son said loudly in a café: “Look at that big fat lady mummy.”

When I tried to shush him he just shouted louder. “Big fat lady, over there, big fat lady.”

How about all those episodes when tantrums or food flinging had you wanting to dig a hole and bury yourself?

Only the other week we were enjoying a family meal in a local restaurant when my youngest son picked the moment to vomit copiously and loudly all over his father and the floor. There was no dignified way out of that.

Or how about my oldest boy’s first flight to London. Our businessman neighbour on the flight did his best to hide his dismay at sitting next to a toddler until the point my lad sneezed lumpy green stuff all over the chap’s very smart suit trousers. It might be 10 years ago, but that one still makes me shrivel inside.

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There can’t be an ordinary parent who hasn’t endured tuts or The Look from disapproving bystanders, you know, the ones who have forgotten they were ever children. Most of us have even been asked to control our brats at one point or another. Don’t they realise that we’re trying our very best?

The real culprits in this scenario aren’t the playful children, the harassed mothers and fathers or even the intolerant members of the public. Oh no, I blame celebrity parents.

When was the last time you saw one of the Beckhams flinging his chicken dippers across a restaurant or smearing Posh with ketchup? What about the mini-style icon offspring of Gwen Stefani and Gavin Rossdale? Don’t they protest about putting the latest fashion on?

Even Katie Price and Peter Andre’s Princess and Junior always seem angelic. After all, they don’t get much of an example of grown-up behaviour from mum and dad.

The Jolie-Pitt brood might be full of energy but you never hear of anyone saying: “Ahem, Madam, would you mind controlling your son/daughter they’re interrupting our dinner.”

And I doubt that Suri Cruise ever stops mincing around daintily long enough to disgorge every personal item in her mother’s handbag all over the floor of a busy hotel foyer.

Even the champions of ‘real’ parenting, like Denise Van Outen, Myleene Klass, Natalie Cassidy and Tess Daly, might mutter on Twitter about sleepless nights or teething troubles, but they’re never actually snapped with rice crispies in their hair or been asked to leave a Starbucks.

So, I’d like to see the parents of the toddler who caused our massive balls-up to come forward and champion a new cause. Instead of Red Nose day, I say we celebrate red faced parents, because every blush is a badge of honour.