MammyWoo’s guide to Tot Traveling.
God I hate flying.
If I could, I would never step foot on a big metal bird ever again and would travel everywhere by boat (with champagne in my hand and my hair blowing in the wind.)
I hate everything that is involved with taking to the skies, but nothing terrifies me more than the fact that for 2 and a half hours at any given point, my quaking bones will be at the very minimum, a midgie’s dick away from the final frontier and a midgie’s forskin away from potentially plummeting 32 godzillion feet to my untimely and not very romantic death.
It is not the actual death bit that scares me, because I figure, wherever I was before I was born I was fine, it is more the plummeting part that puts the fear of god up me.
You have to admit. Flying is not natural. Flying is shit and I am shit at flying.
It’s a means to an end though, and if i can happily sit and speak to thousands of people I don’t know on my iphone, then I must also accept and deal with the fact that I will have to fly every now and again.
I am a strong woman. Honest. So I will cope.
This week started with me sitting on a Goodfella’s pepperoni and will end with me mounting a bird of death to Spain, to visit my dad and the various wild animals and hairy Spanish murderers (all lurking in the undergrowth) dotted around his colonial style Spanish finca which literally sits on top of a beautiful mountain in the middle of nowhere.
If we were just a little bit richer and a little bit famous, we could probably build a bouncy castle type landing pad on top of his balcony (not the bit with the turret) and just parachute out of the plane and right in to his living room, instead of having to endure the shaky, achy decent on to the runway of doom in to Malaga. (I hate take off and landing and the bit in between, come to think of it, the most.)
Unfortunately though, I have bled my father’s bank account dry over the last year (thanks dad, love you!) and as I am not famous at all, (unless you count the time I fell off the stage, exposing myself, at the chinese karaoke) the theme park esque landing pad will have to be put on hold for now. (Maybe when we win the lottery eh? )
That said, I love visiting my dad, I love going home, (when I lived there we lived in a trendy, hustling, bustling town further up the coast, but when I left papaaa went local and decided to move the family home to el campo where he now spends his time gardening, spotting wild boar, wearing plaid shirts and ringing me for advice about how to download ‘stuff’ like that ‘angry bird shit’ from ITunes. Although it has to be said, his landscape garden is absolutely beautiful and his quality of life is enviable) and finally I love watching Addison spend quality time with granddad.
Addison adores his granddad almost as much as I do and I can’t wait to spend a week laughing and enjoying the company of my three favourite men. Unfortunately Doodle will be staying here so our matching poodles will not get to cavort in the sun together. (Matching poodle’s are the ultimate accessory.)
After my last visit to Spain which involved amongst other things, me forgetting the word for nappy (panales!) and having to play charades with an unsuspecting commuter at 8 in the morning (1 word, 2 sylables, mime having a poo.) I have put together a list of things; you simply must do if you are travelling abroad for the first time with your new child.
MammyWoo’s guide to travelling with a tot, if you will.
1) Don’t do it unless you absolutely have to.
2) If you can go by boat then please lend me your boat so I can go by boat too.
3) On arriving at the airport don’t announce to your partner, you have in fact, forgotten the changing bag. This will only enrage your travelling companion and cause massive argumentus errupticus over international waters. Just buy a new bag in the departure lounge; it isn’t like he is going to notice!
4) Squeeze baby’s tummy gently so he/she poo’s before you get on the plane. (JOKE!) Aeroplane toilets are designed by people with no elbows so take a plastic knife.
5) Hack your own elbows off with the plastic knife during takeoff, in preparation for in-flight flatulence and follow through. (The baby’s, not yours.)
6) Take toys your baby has never seen before, this will keep him entertained for at least 12 seconds before the screaming begins. (Yours not his.)
7) Unwrap the toys before you get on the plane as asking for ‘a knife to slice the twiddly bits of my box’ may alarm the homosexual (but fabulous) air steward.
8) Take a local language phrase book. Learn the word for ‘fucking hell’ and ‘bollocks’ so that people know to get out of your way when you begin to lose the plot.
9) Never give a six month old a prawn. (BELIEVE ME.)
10) Make sure you take enough formula to last the duration of the holiday. If you have never breastfed, massaging your tiny boobs in a desperate attempt to produce milk, will only serve to send the wrong message to your partner and ultimately your baby will still be starving after you have fought him off.
11) Never say yes to sex until he has promised you at least an hour, of child free sunbathing.
12) Always find out where the nearest Dr’s office is for any eventuality including but not limited to;
- Severe sunburn.
- Severe annoying tendency illness (The Irish One not me.)
- Gastro enteritis (the Baby.)
- ‘A bad stomach’ (the Irish One.)
- ‘The shits.’ (me.)
- ‘Get out of my house you smelly bastards’ (my dad.)
See you on the other side people. I love you long time.
Are you ready for some babysitting dad?
Una cerveza porfavor!