Since I’ve had kids, I like to make it back to the UK each summer for a few weeks to give them an all English-speaking experience, and visit family. This summer I’m taking the plane on my own with Luke (aged 5) and Julien (aged 7 months). This because Jean-Se can’t face more than a certain period of time cooped up at my Mum’s in South London. He and my stepdaughter will be joining us later. So I’ve braved the gauntlet of budget flights with small children and have come to the conclusion that in this situation, anything less than a disaster means you’re actually doing quite well. Don’t get me wrong, I did put a significant amount of preparation into this. Julien was inspected by the Doctor the day before we left to ensure he wasn’t building up to an earache, and she prescribed some anesthetic ear drops for the flight. I also made sure to have a bottle ready to give him during the landing. Luke had a variety of different activities to be spun out over the flight (the timing of this is absolutely crucial to the wellbeing of the adults in your party and in the surrounding seats). And the God of seats smiled on us and ensured that no unsuspecting single traveller sat next to us, allowing me the logistical advantage of the spare seat next to me for key maneuvers. Plus, crucially, I remembered that while you can keep your pushchair until you get on the plane, once you get off you will not have it again until Baggage Reclaim which means lugging any infant incapable of walking, plus bags, all the way through the terminal and the queue for passport control. This year I brought the Baby Bjorn, Ha! So once my frazzled nerves have calmed themselves and the whole awful experience has receded into the past, I feel I can congratulate myself on having survived with both my children intact and nothing lost. Or maybe just for having survived.
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