One of the nice things we did over half term was to visit family in Dorset. Lunch outside on the Cobb at Lyme Regis was a real treat - who'd have thought in this wettest of wet winters that we might do that in February...
But the weather turned again and for the following day in Weymouth, Hearth-Father chose to worship at the 'cathedral of cider'. This was an airy rustic restaurant with only pizza and cider on the menu. Everyone was happy! But it was up on the third floor and had a lift to access. Once the children were finished eating they dashed off to play.
Shortly afterwards Gilby came running back into the room, shaking, purple-lipped and barely able to speak.
"Eddie's gone!" he sobbed. It took another moment to work our what had happened. "In the LIFT!" he wailed. It was absolutely the end of the world, and must have seemed as if his little baby brother had been swallowed up. After all, lifts can go anywhere, if you read Roald Dahl.
I ran to look and could just about make out a tiny voice shouting 'Mummy...'.
Thankfully the lift hadn't even moved from that floor, and the doors just opened up to reveal the miscreant, who needed a little cuddle but was otherwise unharmed.
It was touching that it was his big brother who was more upset. Less so that a few hours later they were happily pummeling each other once more over whose turn it was to play with a toy.
Currently Reading: Boring research methodology books.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Sunday, 23 February 2014
Wednesday, 1 January 2014
2013: The Highs, the Lows
Happy new year to all my friends and family, readers and fellow bloggers; and during this time of reflection and resolution, a very quick, if self-indulgent, look back at 2013.
For the family, the biggest moment was Eddie finally taking his first steps back at the end of July. Looking at him running round after his siblings now you'd never guess it had been in any doubt. It quite brought a tear to his mother's eye. In September Gilby started school and has shone ever since. How cute did he look in his little school uniform, just a month after his fourth birthday? It...brought a tear to his mother's eye. After one term he can read and write and loves it. And Gertie becoming the Under-5 Celtic National Irish Dancing Champion in November brought, yes, a little tear or two to her mother's eye. A month later she had the lead in the school play. A star all round.
2013 was the year that I turned 40 and I had the most fantastic weekend for this milestone birthday as well as taking a long-held dream trip to Venice (just my husband and I, no kids!) to celebrate later in the year.
I think I have to count diving into the pool in Cabrieres for the first time at the start of our summer holiday as one of my top moments, and arriving at Harburn House in Scotland for Christmas as another. We can't travel the world in the same way as I once did, but clearly those little short trips and family holidays are just as special and important. Learning to ballroom dance is up there too, though we won't be troubling Strictly any time soon. We celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary very happily; where did those years go?
2013 had some professional highs: passing what I thought was my penultimate MA module last January with a merit, being accepted to present a seminar at the NATE conference in June, beginning a National Writing Project Group in Sussex in July, gaining an OFSTED outstanding at school in November. (I know that last one shouldn't count, but it does!)
There were some writing successes: Completing NanoWriMo with a 50,000 word draft of On Sudden Ground was a major achievement and now just that lengthy revision and editing process to go before securing that lucrative publishing deal in 2014. (When I will, also, finally complete my MA.) I won and was placed in a number of different short story competitions through the year; more writing to come in 2014, beginning with an educational article to be published in January.
The lows were thankfully few and far between. We lost my uncle last January. He was relatively young but it wasn't unexpected. Still very sad, though, especially for my mother. The beginning of March was plagued with illness, and I didn't enjoy going to work with an eye-patch during a severe eye-infection. On the upside, Gilby thought it was quite cool. Discovering that my final MA module wasn't was a bit of a bore (20,000 words still to go), and finding another 'suspicious' breast lump was more than a little scary, though thankfully now all fine once more. Being able to count those 'down' things on one hand reminds me of how very much I have to be grateful for.
It remains the family, of course, that is most important. We begin 2014 with a family day out and lunch with some dear friends, and that is the way that I mean to carry on.
Currently Reading: 72 Virgins by Boris Johnson. Not entirely sure why.
For the family, the biggest moment was Eddie finally taking his first steps back at the end of July. Looking at him running round after his siblings now you'd never guess it had been in any doubt. It quite brought a tear to his mother's eye. In September Gilby started school and has shone ever since. How cute did he look in his little school uniform, just a month after his fourth birthday? It...brought a tear to his mother's eye. After one term he can read and write and loves it. And Gertie becoming the Under-5 Celtic National Irish Dancing Champion in November brought, yes, a little tear or two to her mother's eye. A month later she had the lead in the school play. A star all round.
2013 was the year that I turned 40 and I had the most fantastic weekend for this milestone birthday as well as taking a long-held dream trip to Venice (just my husband and I, no kids!) to celebrate later in the year.
I think I have to count diving into the pool in Cabrieres for the first time at the start of our summer holiday as one of my top moments, and arriving at Harburn House in Scotland for Christmas as another. We can't travel the world in the same way as I once did, but clearly those little short trips and family holidays are just as special and important. Learning to ballroom dance is up there too, though we won't be troubling Strictly any time soon. We celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary very happily; where did those years go?
2013 had some professional highs: passing what I thought was my penultimate MA module last January with a merit, being accepted to present a seminar at the NATE conference in June, beginning a National Writing Project Group in Sussex in July, gaining an OFSTED outstanding at school in November. (I know that last one shouldn't count, but it does!)
There were some writing successes: Completing NanoWriMo with a 50,000 word draft of On Sudden Ground was a major achievement and now just that lengthy revision and editing process to go before securing that lucrative publishing deal in 2014. (When I will, also, finally complete my MA.) I won and was placed in a number of different short story competitions through the year; more writing to come in 2014, beginning with an educational article to be published in January.
The lows were thankfully few and far between. We lost my uncle last January. He was relatively young but it wasn't unexpected. Still very sad, though, especially for my mother. The beginning of March was plagued with illness, and I didn't enjoy going to work with an eye-patch during a severe eye-infection. On the upside, Gilby thought it was quite cool. Discovering that my final MA module wasn't was a bit of a bore (20,000 words still to go), and finding another 'suspicious' breast lump was more than a little scary, though thankfully now all fine once more. Being able to count those 'down' things on one hand reminds me of how very much I have to be grateful for.
It remains the family, of course, that is most important. We begin 2014 with a family day out and lunch with some dear friends, and that is the way that I mean to carry on.
Currently Reading: 72 Virgins by Boris Johnson. Not entirely sure why.
Thursday, 15 August 2013
Walking Holiday
It has been a wee while since my last post.
This is not an oversight, but as a result of my employer using a 'smart' system at school (and I do use that term very loosely) which meant that all of a sudden I was not able to access my blogger account. Very frustrating, but a more normal lack of service should now resume.
In the meantime we have been enjoying our summer vacation to the south of France. A selection of quick highlights will provide a taste.
It was twelve hours each way in a car. There were seven of us on the way out: the five of us, plus Nano and a niece. To while away the time we mostly enjoyed the stilted and frankly inappropriate pronunciation of French place names by the sat nav. Destinations like "Boulevard Georges Pompidou in Troyes" made my own attempts in French sound positively fluent. We found the most amazing crumbling chateau on the outskirts of Amiens that will definitely be worth a second visit and beat last year's overnight stop in the equivalent of a Travelodge in Lille by a significant margin.
Eddie took his first steps, a month short of his second birthday. I watched him get up and walk a good four steps across the balcony before reaching out to a folded deckchair which promptly clattered down on top of him. We were both crying. Mine were tears of joy, his of pain and shock, for a moment that at one stage we weren't sure would ever come. He became a good 'pool guy' and enjoyed holding on to the net pole each morning, and the steps have come fast now that he is back on British soil.
Other highlights included kayaking beneath the Pont du Gard, masses of rosé, early morning lengths, Gilby turning four and inexplicably being let loose with 200 water bombs (thanks, Nano!)great clothes buying in the shops and markets at Uzes and an anniversary meal at Remoulin. Sigh. Over for another year.
The way home was memorable for the wine drinking on a foot-wide balcony of our hotel room in Troyes. I know that we will not be the first parents to have resorted to that, but we could be on for the record for the most wine consumed on the smallest balcony...
We also met a German couple at breakfast who were fascinated by Freddie's ability to talk. I pointed out that this was directly related, perhaps, to his inability to walk - and the necessity of communicating his every whim to two older siblings willing to run around doing anything he needs.
"Ahh!" said Herr with understanding. "I see. It is he who gives zee orders!"
Indeed.
This is not an oversight, but as a result of my employer using a 'smart' system at school (and I do use that term very loosely) which meant that all of a sudden I was not able to access my blogger account. Very frustrating, but a more normal lack of service should now resume.
In the meantime we have been enjoying our summer vacation to the south of France. A selection of quick highlights will provide a taste.
It was twelve hours each way in a car. There were seven of us on the way out: the five of us, plus Nano and a niece. To while away the time we mostly enjoyed the stilted and frankly inappropriate pronunciation of French place names by the sat nav. Destinations like "Boulevard Georges Pompidou in Troyes" made my own attempts in French sound positively fluent. We found the most amazing crumbling chateau on the outskirts of Amiens that will definitely be worth a second visit and beat last year's overnight stop in the equivalent of a Travelodge in Lille by a significant margin.
Eddie took his first steps, a month short of his second birthday. I watched him get up and walk a good four steps across the balcony before reaching out to a folded deckchair which promptly clattered down on top of him. We were both crying. Mine were tears of joy, his of pain and shock, for a moment that at one stage we weren't sure would ever come. He became a good 'pool guy' and enjoyed holding on to the net pole each morning, and the steps have come fast now that he is back on British soil.
The way home was memorable for the wine drinking on a foot-wide balcony of our hotel room in Troyes. I know that we will not be the first parents to have resorted to that, but we could be on for the record for the most wine consumed on the smallest balcony...
We also met a German couple at breakfast who were fascinated by Freddie's ability to talk. I pointed out that this was directly related, perhaps, to his inability to walk - and the necessity of communicating his every whim to two older siblings willing to run around doing anything he needs.
"Ahh!" said Herr with understanding. "I see. It is he who gives zee orders!"
Indeed.
Friday, 26 August 2011
Nous Sommes Back!
I know that one shouldn't complain when one is on holiday, but here are ten things I have struggled with whilst in the South of France (in 38 degree heat) and very heavily pregnant...
1) Heaving my remarkable bulk onto a lilo whilst retaining some dignity.
2) Watching all around me drink copious amounts of rose whilst I look on enviously.
3) Not being able to kyak to the Pont du Gard for fear of disproving Archimedes' Principle (and capsizing).
4) Heaving my remarkable bulk up from a sun-lounger.
5) French squat toilets: difficult to negotiate with precarious centre of gravity. (Although I did find the fact that Gertie did a wee on her grandmother's foot the first time she attempted to use one more than faintly amusing.)
6) Avoiding all those delicious but 'illegal' cheeses.
7) Covering up the chloasma or pregnancy mask.
8) Trying to get my back as brown as my front: impossible with a bump this size!
9) Climbing to the top of the amphitheatre in Nimes. Highly ambitious given the size and quantity of the steps.
10) Looking glamorous in a bikini. Ha!
That's not to say that it wasn't all brilliant and worthwhile. The 14 hour drive home was interesting, although my husband probably didn't fully appreciate the urgency and frequency with which one has to pee in this condition.
37 Weeks Pregnant: Wondering why I finally have an 'outie' belly-button when that never happened with babies 1 and 2.
Currently reading: How to Be a Woman by Caitlin Moran
1) Heaving my remarkable bulk onto a lilo whilst retaining some dignity.
2) Watching all around me drink copious amounts of rose whilst I look on enviously.
3) Not being able to kyak to the Pont du Gard for fear of disproving Archimedes' Principle (and capsizing).
4) Heaving my remarkable bulk up from a sun-lounger.
5) French squat toilets: difficult to negotiate with precarious centre of gravity. (Although I did find the fact that Gertie did a wee on her grandmother's foot the first time she attempted to use one more than faintly amusing.)
6) Avoiding all those delicious but 'illegal' cheeses.
7) Covering up the chloasma or pregnancy mask.
8) Trying to get my back as brown as my front: impossible with a bump this size!
9) Climbing to the top of the amphitheatre in Nimes. Highly ambitious given the size and quantity of the steps.
10) Looking glamorous in a bikini. Ha!
That's not to say that it wasn't all brilliant and worthwhile. The 14 hour drive home was interesting, although my husband probably didn't fully appreciate the urgency and frequency with which one has to pee in this condition.
37 Weeks Pregnant: Wondering why I finally have an 'outie' belly-button when that never happened with babies 1 and 2.
Currently reading: How to Be a Woman by Caitlin Moran
Friday, 12 August 2011
The Pied Piper of Languedoc
Well here we are in the south of France once more, staying at a fabulous house complete with pool in a tiny French village in the Languedoc region. All idyllic, and there are still two weeks to go.
The particular joy of this place is that it contains enough rooms to accommodate both sets of grandparents plus an aunt and uncle and neice or nephew or two. Admittedly, in some families this could represent a vision of hell, but with the constant vying for the attention of the grandchildren, Big-Fat-Enormously-Heavily-Pregnant-Mummy gets to have some proper rest and relaxation.
And my mother (or 'Nano' to the grandchildren) appears to have turned into the pied piper of Hamelin, merrily leading all the children off in the early morning to get the freshly-baked baguettes, pains au chocolat and croissants for le petit dejeuner, thereby leaving parents who inevitably stayed up too late the night before to have an extra hour's peace in bed. Though she brings them back later, so this legend has a slightlier happier outcome than its German counterpart.
Need to supervise a two-year-old and a four-year-old in the pool whilst you get on with the important business of sunbathing? Then there's an uncle or older neice on hand to fulfil that role. Bliss.
I just hope this baby doesn't come early. Usually I'm wishing these last few weeks away, just wanting to get on with the business of meeting the new arrival. Not this time!
36 weeks pregnant: Wondering if participating in the extremely competitive volleyball tournament was the most sensible idea, and pondering exactly how one can achive an all over tan when clearly lying on one's stomach is a physical impossibility.
Currently reading: The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
Friday, 4 February 2011
Party Ideas Are Poles Apart
I was warned, way back in the very early stages of pregnancy, about just how competitive the birthday party scene is in parent-land.
So far it's been fine. We had a nice tea-party at home for Gertie's first birthday; more adults than children, more wine than squash. Perfect.
Birthday number two took place at the local farm park; a few friends and family and my mother, who works there, to help organise.
The third birthday was the most ambitious: We had a bouncy castle in the garden. It was great, because all I had to do was simply supply a bit of party food and watch the little people bounce. The sun was shining, but not so much that I had to worry about continually slathering on sun-cream, and nobody got bounced on. It was easy, and I didn't have to organise any games or prizes or anything.
However, the stakes have been raised somewhat, and we've now reached a bit of an impasse over Gertie's fourth birthday party. It's not until May, but I thought that now might be the time to get the plans made and do any organisation that might be required. The trouble is this. We had Abigail's party where there was a professional party-planner sorting out all the entertainment; Cameron's birthday party where there was a 'pirates and mermaids' theme; Sophie's at the village hall where there was a dressed-up Peppa Pig, and Adam's is next week and it's some kind of Toy Story 3 extravaganza.
So we began the discussions. They went something along these lines:
"What would you like to do for your birthday? Shall we have another party in the garden, or go back to the farm? (positively, head nodding in the hope of eliciting an affirmative response.)
"No." (Firmly) "I'd like to go to the North Pole."
"Um. Well that would be a little cold for everyone."
"That's ok. We just need to all wrap up warm. Like we did when it was snowing."
"Ye-es."
"And make sure that we're all wearing our hats and scarves and gloves."
(I can't really argue with the logic, and have a slight feeling of being 'hoisted by my own petard' but have another idea to attempt to dampen the enthusiasm.) "But it's a very long way away for everyone to travel..."
(Looking at me as though I am stupid) "We can get on an ae-ro-plane." (This is very deliberately in three syllables, as though to spell it out to the senile mother who can't quite keep up with the conversation.) We'll all fly there."
"Oh. Will we?
"Yes." (Abrupt shift in the direction of the conversation to allow no room for negotiation.) "Now. I've done some invitations already."
(Weakly) "What...?"
So. There we are. I am apparently flying fifteen-odd pre-schoolers to the Arctic for a fourth birthday party. I wonder if that's all-inclusive?
So far it's been fine. We had a nice tea-party at home for Gertie's first birthday; more adults than children, more wine than squash. Perfect.
Birthday number two took place at the local farm park; a few friends and family and my mother, who works there, to help organise.
The third birthday was the most ambitious: We had a bouncy castle in the garden. It was great, because all I had to do was simply supply a bit of party food and watch the little people bounce. The sun was shining, but not so much that I had to worry about continually slathering on sun-cream, and nobody got bounced on. It was easy, and I didn't have to organise any games or prizes or anything.
However, the stakes have been raised somewhat, and we've now reached a bit of an impasse over Gertie's fourth birthday party. It's not until May, but I thought that now might be the time to get the plans made and do any organisation that might be required. The trouble is this. We had Abigail's party where there was a professional party-planner sorting out all the entertainment; Cameron's birthday party where there was a 'pirates and mermaids' theme; Sophie's at the village hall where there was a dressed-up Peppa Pig, and Adam's is next week and it's some kind of Toy Story 3 extravaganza.
So we began the discussions. They went something along these lines:
"What would you like to do for your birthday? Shall we have another party in the garden, or go back to the farm? (positively, head nodding in the hope of eliciting an affirmative response.)
"No." (Firmly) "I'd like to go to the North Pole."
"Um. Well that would be a little cold for everyone."
"That's ok. We just need to all wrap up warm. Like we did when it was snowing."
"Ye-es."
"And make sure that we're all wearing our hats and scarves and gloves."
(I can't really argue with the logic, and have a slight feeling of being 'hoisted by my own petard' but have another idea to attempt to dampen the enthusiasm.) "But it's a very long way away for everyone to travel..."
(Looking at me as though I am stupid) "We can get on an ae-ro-plane." (This is very deliberately in three syllables, as though to spell it out to the senile mother who can't quite keep up with the conversation.) We'll all fly there."
"Oh. Will we?
"Yes." (Abrupt shift in the direction of the conversation to allow no room for negotiation.) "Now. I've done some invitations already."
(Weakly) "What...?"
So. There we are. I am apparently flying fifteen-odd pre-schoolers to the Arctic for a fourth birthday party. I wonder if that's all-inclusive?
Monday, 3 January 2011
Getting Our Skates On
Yesterday was a really special day. It began with a typical exchange over breakfast, the kind that makes me marvel at my daughter's playful approach to language.
Gertie detected that the marmalade on her toast was "too blimpetty". When I raised an enquiring eyebrow she explained patiently that that meant that it "gets right on your tongue and makes it hurt a bit". ('Sharp', I concluded to myself, but chose not to share it, since blimpetty seemed a much more apt description.)
She then observed that marmalade was obviously for mummies, really, because it had the 'marm' sound in it. I didn't think I ought to mention Daddy's penchant for marmite at that point.
But then we headed up to London to visit Grandpa Mac and after a quick coffee and lots of presents at Victoria Station, we decided on the Natural History museum as a good way to spend the day. It must be twenty years since I have been there myself and although it might be a bit beyond Gilby, my sponge of a three-and-a-half-year-old daughter would certainly get something from it.
But it took us a long while to get there, because as we came out of the tube station at South Kensington we were confronted by the temporary ice-skating rink. Isn't that nice, I thought. We can watch all the other people skating round and it still feels Christmassy. Gertie had other ideas. "Can we do it, Mum? Dad?"
Mum and Dad tossed for the pleasure. (Not entirely sure about that sentence; let me confirm that we tossed a coin...) I lost, and found myself clutching two pairs of skates while Daddy and Grandpa clutched a baby and a poised camera, respectively.
It did not begin well. The intervening time between me last donning a pair of skates is probably close to that of my last visit to the museum, so I wasn't exactly 'solid' on the ice. Gertie had no idea what she was letting herself in for, and it took us fifteen minutes to edge our way down to the little learner-rink with several slips along the way. Gertie had no balance at all. We finally got there and I left her clinging on to Daddy on the other side of the wall while I skated back to try and purchase a £5 stabilising penguin for her to cling on too. No luck. All the penguins were already taken. This was looking like a disastrous idea. Then some kind soul lent us their penguin, and we were off. Slowly, inching, but we were definitely off. The pleasure on her face as Gertie edged a few feet forwards without falling was amazing to see. And she picked herself up each time she did fall over with admirable determination. After another fifteen minutes she was ready to let go of the penguin, and skate over (very slowly and cautiously) to me.
"I'm doing it, I'm doing it!" She was thrilled and so was I. And it meant I got to skate off in the big rink for a few moments (badly and without the grace of many of the other skaters, but I was doing it, I was doing it, too!)
The museum was fantastic. How scary is that T-rex model? I struggled to explain volcanoes to Gertie, but she quite liked that exhibit anyway. Her favourite thing was the wave-machine. I think that might be on next year's Christmas list to Santa, which could cause problems. Daddy was in his element in 'Creepy Crawlies'. I can't wait to do it all again when Gilby is a bit older.
The two of them giggled all the way home on the train, even though it was an hour past bedtime by the time we got back.
Why do I have to go back to work tomorrow? Oh yes, because we wouldn't be able to do stuff like that if I didn't, I remember now.
Sunday, 25 October 2009
Never Take an Evening Flight
And then there was the journey home.
I probably shouldn't begin a post with 'and', but really the whole sorry saga is not out of my system yet, and I feel that I must just carry on talking about it. The flight out to Gibraltar last week was mostly about Daddy getting wet. But the flight home was just, well, chaos, with nothing serene about it.
We had the classic 'check-out of the hotel a mere seven hours prior to needing to be at the airport' situation. This is a fundamental error, and one which I intend to never knowingly repeat.
We should have made a plan, but we didn't actually do anything with this supposed extra day, apart from finding a nice spot in the marina for lunch. It was a nice spot, until almost-but-not-quite-potty-trained-Gertie decided to wee on my lap, soaking both of us. Of course I had a change of clothes for the culprit, but not one for me, which prompted a friend who we had met for lunch to look sympathetically at my newborn and then nod sagely at me, muttering about reduced pelvic floor capacity.
Daddy, noticing my gritted teeth and the fact that I was barely able to control my rage, offered to jog back to the hotel, locate the luggage and find an alternative pair of jeans for me to wear. Meanwhile a further axe-dident occurred at the restuarant. It seems that it doesn't rain but it pours. I was not amused.
The flight home was delayed by nearly three hours, and I didn't have that many activities stashed in my hand luggage to entertain a toddler - whilst Daddy decided that the best thing to do would be to take a leap into cider-space. I would have joined him, but as I am still breast-feeding Gilby it didn't seem like a good idea.
Gertie decided not to sleep on the flight until about forty minutes before we were due to land. By this time it was getting on for midnight. When we woke her up, she screamed, fairly consistently, until we got off the plane. Concerned (and obviously childless) passengers around us enquired as to what was what was wrong. "She's just knackered, as am I!" I wanted to scream back, but refrained from doing so. I charged through the airport with Gilby now screaming his head off, having also woken up and due a feed. I started feeding him while Daddy calmed Gertie and collected the luggage. I continued, on the move, through customs, not caring that my breast was on display for all to see. Dignity had been lost from the morning wee wee and never quite regained.
Oh - and the trip itself? Dominated by the fact that a barbary ape jumped on Gertie's head.
I probably shouldn't begin a post with 'and', but really the whole sorry saga is not out of my system yet, and I feel that I must just carry on talking about it. The flight out to Gibraltar last week was mostly about Daddy getting wet. But the flight home was just, well, chaos, with nothing serene about it.
We had the classic 'check-out of the hotel a mere seven hours prior to needing to be at the airport' situation. This is a fundamental error, and one which I intend to never knowingly repeat.
We should have made a plan, but we didn't actually do anything with this supposed extra day, apart from finding a nice spot in the marina for lunch. It was a nice spot, until almost-but-not-quite-potty-trained-Gertie decided to wee on my lap, soaking both of us. Of course I had a change of clothes for the culprit, but not one for me, which prompted a friend who we had met for lunch to look sympathetically at my newborn and then nod sagely at me, muttering about reduced pelvic floor capacity.
Daddy, noticing my gritted teeth and the fact that I was barely able to control my rage, offered to jog back to the hotel, locate the luggage and find an alternative pair of jeans for me to wear. Meanwhile a further axe-dident occurred at the restuarant. It seems that it doesn't rain but it pours. I was not amused.
The flight home was delayed by nearly three hours, and I didn't have that many activities stashed in my hand luggage to entertain a toddler - whilst Daddy decided that the best thing to do would be to take a leap into cider-space. I would have joined him, but as I am still breast-feeding Gilby it didn't seem like a good idea.
Gertie decided not to sleep on the flight until about forty minutes before we were due to land. By this time it was getting on for midnight. When we woke her up, she screamed, fairly consistently, until we got off the plane. Concerned (and obviously childless) passengers around us enquired as to what was what was wrong. "She's just knackered, as am I!" I wanted to scream back, but refrained from doing so. I charged through the airport with Gilby now screaming his head off, having also woken up and due a feed. I started feeding him while Daddy calmed Gertie and collected the luggage. I continued, on the move, through customs, not caring that my breast was on display for all to see. Dignity had been lost from the morning wee wee and never quite regained.
Oh - and the trip itself? Dominated by the fact that a barbary ape jumped on Gertie's head.
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Airports and liquids
My husband and I agree that serenity, or at least the appearance of it, is the key to parenting. And an invaluable tool for just getting through an airport with two small children.
We left for Gibraltar last Thursday. Our planned departure time was 10am. Our actual departure time was 10.05am. Brilliant. (I had factored in an extra hour since my husband is famous for his lateness, a trait that stems way back to pre-fatherhood days and hasn't improved with age.) We had to turn around only once: for a forgotten 'Bunny My Honey', a current favoured soft toy, and played the What Else Do You Think We Have Forgotten? game all the way to the airport. Even with the false start, we still arrived at the airport TOO EARLY TO CHECK IN.
Gilby slept through a leisurely lunch; Gertie was immaculately behaved in the restaurant. Security was quick, and although we had to dismantle the pram into its component parts to satisfy the guards and the pot of bubbles I had bought to amuse Gertie was not deemed particularly appropriate, we progressed in a timely fashion, almost sauntering to the departure gate with Daddy and I shrugging at each other and smiling smugly at how easy everything seemed to be. Ha ha.
We took advantage of the airline's policy for priority boarding for those with children under 5, although this did involve minor fracas with barging passengers who thought it would be helpful to surge forward and block any potential gangways to the plane, snorting indignantly as we tried to get past them.
Once aboard, we settled into our seats with a puzzle and some books to amuse Gertie, and Gilby didn't seem to mind his seatbelt too much. All was well. Until it became apparent about four seconds before take-off that Gilbert had done something in his nappy that needed to be dealt with immediately. It would not wait until 15 minutes after take-off. You know the sort of nappy I mean. Daddy leapt out of his seat to scowls from the stewards and grabbed the necessary accoutrements from the overhead locker. He leaned over and we attempted the 'in-situ two-man-nappy-change' perfected in pitch-black darkness over many nights. However all that training evidently didn't pay off and a below-par nappy change began a chain of events that mostly involved Daddy being covered in various unsavoury liquids of one description or another.
Gilby filled his nappy again almost immediately, but this time the tell-tale yellow came straight through his clothes. Happily for me Daddy was now holding baby and therefore in possession of yellow-stained jeans (his only pair). This was a good thing as I would have been far crosser and less serene than he.
Gertie asked for her juice cup and Daddy was already up trying to clean his trousers so in charge of getting it for her. The pressure from the plane meant that removing the lid resulted in a powerful upwards gush of liquid to rival an eruption of Vesuvius. Once again this somehow went in the direction of Daddy's jeans.
Gertie found the lure of an aeroplane toilet strong and went at least ten times on the two-hour flight. Since I was back feeding Gilby for a lot of the flight, the responsibility fell to Daddy and whilst there were no real 'axe-didents', several pairs of knickers and tights were required due to inadequate bottom placement, and, you've guessed it, Daddy's jeans found themselves in the firing line again.
I found all this predictably hilarious, which didn't do much for Daddy's serenity levels but did a power of good to mine.
We left for Gibraltar last Thursday. Our planned departure time was 10am. Our actual departure time was 10.05am. Brilliant. (I had factored in an extra hour since my husband is famous for his lateness, a trait that stems way back to pre-fatherhood days and hasn't improved with age.) We had to turn around only once: for a forgotten 'Bunny My Honey', a current favoured soft toy, and played the What Else Do You Think We Have Forgotten? game all the way to the airport. Even with the false start, we still arrived at the airport TOO EARLY TO CHECK IN.
Gilby slept through a leisurely lunch; Gertie was immaculately behaved in the restaurant. Security was quick, and although we had to dismantle the pram into its component parts to satisfy the guards and the pot of bubbles I had bought to amuse Gertie was not deemed particularly appropriate, we progressed in a timely fashion, almost sauntering to the departure gate with Daddy and I shrugging at each other and smiling smugly at how easy everything seemed to be. Ha ha.
We took advantage of the airline's policy for priority boarding for those with children under 5, although this did involve minor fracas with barging passengers who thought it would be helpful to surge forward and block any potential gangways to the plane, snorting indignantly as we tried to get past them.
Once aboard, we settled into our seats with a puzzle and some books to amuse Gertie, and Gilby didn't seem to mind his seatbelt too much. All was well. Until it became apparent about four seconds before take-off that Gilbert had done something in his nappy that needed to be dealt with immediately. It would not wait until 15 minutes after take-off. You know the sort of nappy I mean. Daddy leapt out of his seat to scowls from the stewards and grabbed the necessary accoutrements from the overhead locker. He leaned over and we attempted the 'in-situ two-man-nappy-change' perfected in pitch-black darkness over many nights. However all that training evidently didn't pay off and a below-par nappy change began a chain of events that mostly involved Daddy being covered in various unsavoury liquids of one description or another.
Gilby filled his nappy again almost immediately, but this time the tell-tale yellow came straight through his clothes. Happily for me Daddy was now holding baby and therefore in possession of yellow-stained jeans (his only pair). This was a good thing as I would have been far crosser and less serene than he.
Gertie asked for her juice cup and Daddy was already up trying to clean his trousers so in charge of getting it for her. The pressure from the plane meant that removing the lid resulted in a powerful upwards gush of liquid to rival an eruption of Vesuvius. Once again this somehow went in the direction of Daddy's jeans.
Gertie found the lure of an aeroplane toilet strong and went at least ten times on the two-hour flight. Since I was back feeding Gilby for a lot of the flight, the responsibility fell to Daddy and whilst there were no real 'axe-didents', several pairs of knickers and tights were required due to inadequate bottom placement, and, you've guessed it, Daddy's jeans found themselves in the firing line again.
I found all this predictably hilarious, which didn't do much for Daddy's serenity levels but did a power of good to mine.
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