Kathryn Knight lives in South-West London with her husband, Duncan, and their daughter, Connie, two

Kathryn Knight lives in South-West London with her husband, Duncan, and their daughter, Connie, two.

As any parent knows, the line between peace and disaster can be gossamer thin — and it never feels more fragile than when you are out in public.

I’ve become accustomed to the sighs and silent judgment of others when my daughter has a tantrum. Never, though, has anyone made that sentiment explicit — until a few months ago.

My mother and I were in a coffee shop and I was giving Connie her dinner. But before Mum and I had taken a single sip of our lattes, Connie was making her opinions known about her bowl of pasta.

‘I don’t want it,’ she shouted.

Engaging the ‘hiss’ — the firm but low-volume voice employed in such instances — I told her it was all that was on offer.

Connie became more insistent. When, red-faced and screaming, she started to throw sugar packets off the table while lunging for our coffee cups, I decided enough was enough.

I shouted at my mum to grab some takeaway cups as I tried to hustle Connie out of the door.

But a well-dressed man in his 30s had come over to offer his opinion.

‘Your child is trying to communicate with you,’ he calmly informed me over her escalating cries. ‘You need to learn to listen to her.’

Stunned, all I could manage to say was: ‘She’s just being naughty.’

But to this day I fantasise about bumping into him and ‘communicating’ my feelings — in the form of a punch on the nose.

Jill Foster lives in West Yorkshire with her husband, Robin, and their twin daughters

Jill Foster lives in West Yorkshire with her husband, Robin, and their twin daughters, Charlotte and Martha, three.

My daughter, Charlotte, had thrown herself on the floor and was screaming: ‘No Mummy, nooooo!’ as hot, angry tears flowed down her cheeks.

My crime? The chunk of cucumber I’d passed to her had been ‘the wrong green’.

We’d experienced a similar meltdown the previous week with her twin, Martha.

She was perfectly fine one minute, and the next she was holding her arms aloft and screaming: ‘I have nothing! I have no one!’

The problem, it turned out, was her father had walked up the stairs in front of her rather than behind.

The only kind of person who believes parents should ‘control’ this behaviour is also the kind of person who has never had the following mind-boggling conversation . . .

Me: ‘Would you like a yoghurt?’

Child: ‘No.’

Me: ‘So what would you like?’

Child: ‘A yoghurt.’

I have this conversation every day and it’s taught me that there is no rhyme or reason to how a young child thinks.

Ursula Hirschkorn lives in North London with her husband, Mike, and their four sons

Ursula Hirschkorn lives in North London with her husband, Mike, and their four sons.

As my son’s blond head smashed repeatedly into the seat in front and his screams became ear-splitting, I pitied the passengers around us.

My usually sunny 18-month-old, Jacob, had chosen a plane journey to stage the most dramatic tantrum of his life.

After two weeks at Disney World in Florida, he was tired and tetchy for the night flight home.

By the time we took off, he was already wailing with indignation because I refused to undo his seatbelt.

The moment he was set free, he threw himself on to the floor where he lay writhing with anger and going puce in the face.

I still recall the hot feeling of humiliation. I know what a nightmare it is to be stuck on a plane with someone else’s squalling child, and it made me feel like the worst mother in the world.

The cabin crew helped me get some Calpol down him, to no avail. In between shrieks he was gasping for air. In desperation, one air hostess suggested we move into business class, where there were fewer passengers.

As we half-dragged our still-wailing son after us, my husband and I couldn’t believe our luck. The two other people in the cabin didn’t look happy, but as we took in the huge, leather seats we didn’t care.

As we settled ourselves, my son snuggled into the lap of the lovely business-class hostess and finally calmed down. He drifted off to sleep, angelically sucking his thumb as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

For the rest of the journey she refused to move for fear of waking him. It was the most luxurious flight I have ever enjoyed — thanks to the mother of all tantrums.

Antonia Hoyle lives in North London with her husband, Chris, and their children, Rosie, five, and Felix, three

Antonia Hoyle lives in North London with her husband, Chris, and their children, Rosie, five, and Felix, three.

If the bus had been crowded, it might not have been quite so embarrassing. But there were plenty of spaces, Felix just didn’t want any of them.

He considers it his right to have a window seat on public transport — and heaven help the people already sitting in them.

His bottom lip started to quiver. Quelling the fear in my voice, I tried to explain that the people sitting in them were here before us.

He stamped his foot and started shouting ‘no’ as harried commuters looked up from their smartphones.

I pulled out the emergency sweets stashed in my handbag — they were batted out of my hand, a sure signal of crisis. His protests escalated to an ear-splitting scream.

Reaching his crescendo, he started pointing at the passengers in window seats yelling: ‘Want to sit there.’

A young man tutted. A woman my age rolled her eyes.

Felix, undeterred, set his sights on an elderly lady, who ignored my pleas that she stay put and surrendered her seat with a tight smile.

I’d love to say I refused to let him sit in it. But I was desperate for the crying to stop. Which it did.

With his nose pressed to the window, Felix delightedly waved at passing cars.

Meanwhile, tears of humiliation trickled down my crimson cheeks — and I vowed that next time, we would walk.

Liz Stout lives in Buckinghamshire with her partner, Jo, and children, Lula, 11, and George, eight

Liz Stout lives in Buckinghamshire with her partner, Jo, and children, Lula, 11, and George, eight.

I was eight months’ pregnant with my son when his two-year-old sister lost it in our local Tesco.

Navigating with a pushchair, an overflowing shopping basket and a very large baby bump was a challenge in itself.

Then, with the checkout in sight, Lula asked if she could have one of the giant Easter eggs on display.

My smiley-but-firm response: ‘Not right now, Lula’ unleashed the beast.

She let out a piercing scream and flung herself to the ground, legs kicking furiously, cheeks scarlet with fury.

Fellow shoppers hurriedly swerved to a safe distance.

‘Can’t she control that child?’ I heard one say.

I couldn’t. I tried a kindly approach, then switched to menacing. Finally, desperate, I offered to buy her the Easter egg. But even that didn’t work.

I don’t think even Lula could remember what she was angry about any more.

Abandoning my shopping basket, I dragged her outside by an arm and a leg, manoeuvred her into her buggy, strapped her in and walked off in a state of shock.

You’ll never hear me complain or judge a screaming child.

Unless you’ve had to deal with one, you have no idea how hard it can be.

Rachel Halliwell lives in Cheshire with her husband, Carl, and their three daughters, Bronte, 20, Merrily, 17, and Bridie, nine

Rachel Halliwell lives in Cheshire with her husband, Carl, and their three daughters, Bronte, 20, Merrily, 17, and Bridie, nine.

Merrily’s worst tantrum is seared on to my consciousness. The location: a balmy Cornish beach. The reason: Merrily’s wicked mother refusing to lug a bucketful of snails back to their holiday cottage to keep as pets.

She cried, wailed and kicked up sand in her fury. I was determined to stand firm, so I loudly announced that if Merrily, then two, couldn’t behave, we’d have to leave.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t thought through this threat properly. There was a steep ramp I’d have to manhandle her up before we could flee.

I could feel the other parents’ eyes boring into me, but thankfully in those days people were far too polite to butt in. In the end, her older sister, Bronte, enjoying being the good child, saved the day by giving her sister a hug.