Travelling Terrors

On long haul flights with children you don't need your book. Come to think of it you don't need any reading material; not the in-flight magazine, the menu card or the emergency procedure leaflet. You will never watch a movie.

We've been travelling for 24 hours; me, the partner and two nippers. We're on the third and final flight of our journey (yes, that's right people; THIRD).  We're over the worst of it. We've survived the 12 hour flight from Santiago to Auckland with only a few trauma wounds, and we're now on the cruisey 4 hour direct to Sydney. Easy.

For the first 2 hours the girls pass out. They're so delirious they don't even wake for the food - which is usually the highlight of a flight -. I doze in and out of consciousness, watch a few scenes of a movie on the person's tv in front of me, and obsessively click on the "time to destination" icon on my screen.

This is serenity.

*************

The 1 year old shifts position on her father's lap.
Father opens his eyes.
I draw a breath.
Time stands still for a split second.

*************

With her left leg 1 year old kicks 3 year old in the head.
The 3 year old screams.
The 1 year old screams.
1 year old and 3 year old keep screaming.

We hush, we comfort, we scold, I cry, we bribe with cookies, lollies, promises of a lifetime of ice cream upon our arrival, we pretend they're not ours....and then, from the row in front of us comes a deafening;

"SSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

Surely not.

"SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" again.

"Seriously, did you just hear that?"

We decide to split up. I take the big one for a walk up one side of the plane and the father takes the small one. I hang out in the toilet with the 3 year old (not hard to see eye to eye in a plane loo) and with a sweet smile and a grip on her arm - that might be ever so slightly too tight - I relay comforting words;

"I understand that you're tired after such a long journey, and you've been such a good girl but we're going to be home really soon so can you please just try to hold it together?"

We exit the matchbox to find the little one running riot up and down the aisles poking her head around seats to say "HELLOOOOO" to snoozing passengers.

Give me strength.


As we return to our seats, refreshed after our 15 mins jaunt around the plane, the aforementioned "Shhhhhers" are still shifting about in their seats and straining their necks to give us the evil eye. Incredulously the main offending "Shhhher" is a mother - her son is in his 20s. I start plotting my revenge attack but when it comes to the crunch I don't do or say anything, instead I just sit there with my hands over my kids mouths praying for a speedy landing.

I understand it’s irritating being on a flight with screaming children. You’re looking forward to watching a movie or having a nap and you’ve got a wailing baby in your ear. It grates your nerves. I get it. So, I've come up with a few handy tips on how to deal with flying with the potential of having screaming child/ren in your vicinity;


1. Don't SHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Ever. It's F**KED UP.

2. Why don't you ask if there's anything you can do to help. That would be lovely.

3. Have a little think about how the parents of the screaming children are feeling. Here's a little clue; They're in a darrrrrrrrk place.

4. Buy some headphones which block out sound - or at least muffle sound. That would help.

5. Be kind.

Music saves my life

Feeling like you're going slightly mad when looking after two children under the age of 3 is probably a very common state of mind for many a mother. The intensity of emotion that comes with having two small human beings swinging from my limbs is something I could never have imagined prior to landing on planet motherhood.
In the olden days, as a single gal about town, time to myself would be classified as a weekend away with girlfriends at a luxury spa. Nowadays, I get the same sense of satisfaction if I manage to go to the toilet on my own, without a child wanting to sit on my lap.
The most challenging time in my day has to be from about 5pm when little tummies are hungry, bodies are smeared with all manner of dirt and everyone is tired and tetchy. Books call this time the "witching hour".
As I'm a bit hit or miss in the cooking organisation department, I tend not to have a "here's one I made earlier" dinner dish*, so I end up scurrying around the kitchen, wailing baby on hip, trying to gather something together that resembles a reasonably healthy meal...or at least a meal that won't give the children scurvy.
Once I've successfully cooked, fed, cleaned up, ran bath, undressed children, put children in bath, got soaked, put self in bath with children, washed, taken children and self out of bath, dried, found pyjamas, mopped up wee from floor, held down struggling baby whilst putting on nappy, argued about what pyjamas 3 year old wants to wear, given in, put own pyjamas onto 3 year old finally, finally, finally I carry clean, happy and relatively peaceful children in to the sitting room.
Now It's time. It's time for a boogie. It's time to put on the stereo really loudly. It's time to listen to some "illicit language" rap music. It's time to shake. Shake it out. Shake that booty. Shake it round. Shake it fast. Shake it like there's no tomorrow. Shake it like you cannot wait for another 5pm witching hour. Shake it hard. Shake it and watch your children watching you like you are the queen of shaking it, before joining in. Suddenly you have a shaking party, you're all going wild, hair's all over the place, you're all singing, laughing, shaking it, really going for it and dancing around the entire sitting room. The heat rises, you open the balcony door and continue the shaking right beside the open window. The music stops. You look down. You're naked. You forgot to put on your pyjamas after the bath. This is a recurring theme.
Whatever. Music saves my life.


*When I do have a "here's one I made earlier" dinner dish I feel smug as f***

Bicycle

For Christmas I received a beautiful bicycle. It is a work of art in fact, and I could look at it for hours. The best thing about it is the shopping basket attached to the front, and I also like that it looks retro but not in a wanky way; it doesn't scream "I'm a cool retro bike" rather it oozes a natural confidence. It's ever so slightly glamorous.
My first and only outing went well. I cruised along figuring out local bicycle etiquette, and felt a little smug tinkling my bell to let pedestrians know they should move out of my way on the cycle path. The only problem I encounted was my outfit. As I dashed out of the house leaving tetchy, tired babies with their father I didn't have time to consider what one should wear on a casual bike ride. It was a hot day, I happened to be wearing the world's shortest mini skirt and flimsy tank top. I realised this was a mistake the minute I swung my leg of the cross bar. Not only were my knickers on display the entire time, but my flimsy summer top didn't do much to cover my bra. I managed to tie a knot in my shirt to help the situation up top, but the mini skirt was a lost cause. Luckily this is Australia, bodies are everywhere. I've seen people in their bikinis waiting in doctors surgeries.
Lesson learnt.
I do love my bike.

The New Year

I'm feeling the pressure of New Years. I spiralled into a vacuum of self doubt after innocently being asked what my new years resolution was.

It's January the 4th, and for the first 3 days of this month my partner and I argued continuously. In an act of rebellion I demolished the rest of the (large) bag of crisps from the New Years Eve party. Scandalous. I whined at my children, I cleaned obsessively and then I stopped and panicked. I panicked about my future. Oh, that old chestnut! That intangible, unavoidable, unpredictable concept that has haunted me since the day I was born. Where will I live? What career will I choose? How will I have a career AND take my children to and from school/activities/friend's houses? Will I become a resentful middle aged woman who never "achieved" anything? Will I ever speak fluent Spanish? Will I ever get my pre-baby body back? I've not yet hit middle age, the breakdown isn't due yet. I need to wake up and smell the roses before this hole of self obsession sucks me deeper.

So, after a breath of fresh air and an R&B dance around the sitting room I shook off the negativity and called a friend who knows how to get stuff done. She reassuringly said it was pretty normal to feel unfocused and under confident after taking so many years out of the work force to raise children. I'm ready for my 5 year plan and I think she might be just the ticket to get me back on track.

Poppy

Had I not seen your face
I should not have known how to smile again.

I cannot think of you
without bursting, into gold, into crimson, into a noon blue sky.

"Hello People", you cheer. "Goodbye People", you wave.
Don't let the people make you cry. If they won't answer -

Dance, dance with the butterflies!

Anna Mendleson

The warrier princesses; Poppy, Amaya and Paloma

Oh Frankie

www.frankie.com.au is my all time favourite magazine; inspiring, creative, intelligent and unique. No articles entitled 'How-to-lose-your-thunder-thighs' or 'What-he-really-likes-in-bed'. I wonder what my youth would have been like if I'd read Frankie instead of More, with it's weekly "Position of the fortnight" article and graphic drawing of a couple in an incredibly precarious copulating position.
I read this mag when I was 11 years old, which is a fact that somewhat disturbs me. My big sister - who at the time would have only been 13, borrowed copies from her mates and we would sit in our room listening to the Top 40 on the radio and devouring these contraband articles.
If I'd read Frankie instead of More without a doubt I'd be a bonafide crafty person able to knit and sew and bake and sketch. I'd be a Poppy of all trades and people would come to me asking to fix their hems or make a quilt. I'd probably set up a market stall and make dinky objects or wall hangings or baby clothes. This is not necessarily a life I wish I had, but it would be cute to try it for a while.
What did I get out of More? I studied the intricacies of "how to French kiss" as well as 'how to..." do other things. I fell in love with that guy who presents Wheel of Fortune, whos name escapes me.....VERNAN, that's it. He was a regular More model and hunk of delight. I entered competitions to win random beauty products, and once I won a bottle of hair moose which came in a brown jiffy bag with no accompanying note. With one scrunch of this magic moose I realised I did not have to have a frizzy nest of hair for the rest of my life.
This in itself makes me forever indebted to you More. You were alright.
NB: I assumed the product was from More mag, but it could have been from someone I knew suggesting I get some product into my frizzy mane.