Houston? We have a problemo.
I am nervous.
I would even go as far as to say I am shitting myself.
This time last year I was heavily pregnant with only a few months to go. (Turns out I had no idea what being heavily pregnant even actually meant by that point.) What a drama queen I was. (No surprise there.) ‘Oh my bump is so big, I can barely walk, oh my back, oh I feel like shit. Poor poor me.’ If I could go back now and tell myself to hang on another few months, as by then I would have a full understanding of what the enormity of being humongously pregnant meant, I would.
Yes, I can picture it now. Time traveller’s wife – the pregnancy edition. (Cue voice over.) A fat, uncomfortable and thoroughly fed up (even with her own moaning) 39 week pregnant Lexy, visits a whiney, chubby, and relaxed 26 week pregnant Lexy and slaps her around the face
‘Quit your wining, you aint seen nothing yet… And put that burger down!!’
It would be a best seller. For sure.
Anyway sorry about that tangent. I am so tired, it is hard to focus. (I haven’t been to my new drive thru Starbucks yet today. YES DRIVE THROUGH! It is the most amazing thing that has happened to me this year!!!!!! Erm, you know, except for the birth of my son, obviously. Ahem.)
Ive done it again haven’t I? What was I saying? Oh yes.
This time last year, I was probably snoozing and idly looking forward to a lazy Christmas and a bit of turkey. (While questioning if it is normal for ones thighs to grow at the same rate as ones bump… ‘I’m not eating that much…’)
Right now, however, have I mentioned? I am absolutely laying an egg about Christmas. What a difference a year makes. (Except for, you know, the drama and the moaning.)
The reason why my bowels are doing the Hokey Cokey (and shake it all about!) currently?
A week on Thursday, I am travelling on a plane, for the first time, with Addison Jake oh my god ill just scream and puke for the hell of it, Doyle. Destination, Spain.
I am not a very good flyer, I’ll be honest. The whole rigmarole just makes me shudder. Violently.
I hate the anxiety. I hate the packing.
Oh how I hate packing.
I hate the mad dash to leave the house. I hate the ‘have you got the passports?’ conversation which is usually repeated at least a million times. (YES, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD YES!) ‘Just check one last time.’ (OH FOR HEAVENS SAKE!) I hate airports. I hate airport trolleys (They all have dodgy wheels! And I don’t have the stomach muscles to control wayward luggage mobiles anymore!) I hate searching for a number on a huge screen full of bloody numbers. I hate the queue to get on the plane. I hate the tunnel of doom and the smiling troll welcoming you on board. I hate the false smiles and unnecessary checking of the boarding pass, (‘Ooo 27A, you will find that particular seat, 27 seats down, just past the guy with the massive arse, bending over his chair, for no reason whatsoever, on your right. Its the seat that says 27A in letters above it.’ Really? REALLY? Well thank god for you. I’d have never have found it otherwise.)
I hate all the touching and rubbing and polite, passively aggressive ‘excuse me’s!’ involved in getting to your seat. I hate the cabin crew. (You know why… remember the pilot who slept with the hussy?)
And finally? I hate being whizzed down a run way at a million miles an hour. It is just not natural.
At the thought of that first dip and wobble, (you know the one, just before you reach the clouds) my internals are literally on a Benny.
In fact, hold that thought. I need the loo.
Right, sorry about the wait. (Don’t go in there for at least half an hour ok?)
So, yeah, a week next Thursday (Christmas eve, yes) we will be leaving the comfort of our own home, the home that has nappies. The home that has bottles, the home that has a steriliser, the home that has a cot bed, the home that has Playhouse Disney and most importantly the home where my two feet are always, solidly placed on the GROUND. We will be leaving my comfort zone and we will be heading for the heavens. The clouds. The unknown. A place where there is no ground. Did you hear me? NO GROUND!
Yeah, sure the flight is only 2 and a half hours, but have you any idea how much chaos a 9 months old ill just be sick on that nice lady over there because she grabbed me off mummy in the commotion baby boxer will undoubtedly cause in that amount of time? (Serves you right, troll.)
And don’t even get me started on all the new stuff, I will now have to accomplish while shitting my kecks during every wobble. (Turbulence can’t harm a plane? Tell that to the Apollo 13 crew.)
The not being able to bring formula through the barrier, the queues, and the can we sit here? No? Do you want the aisle seat? How does this work with a seatbelt? Does he sit on my knee? What the fuck is a bulkhead? He has been sick, where are the wipes? Well what the hell are they doing up there?
What I commonly refer to as, the changing a nappy at 32000 feet nightmare. Because it will be won’t it? And what if we forget the changing bag? Or he screams the whole way? Or his head falls off because of the altitude?
I need the loo again.
I may be some time.