Once upon a time (i.e. back in 2014), Cam and I flew from Melbourne to London with our eldest daughter, Clara. She was six months old.
It was the worst 24 hours of my life. Honestly. It was worse than being in labour. I’m pretty sure Clara screamed non-stop for 24 hours. I wailed like a lunatic with those great, big, heaving sobs that leave you unable to catch your breath.
At some point, the pilot came and spoke to me. He offered me solidarity, telling me he’d been there too. His kindness made me cry even more. At our trip’s mid-point in Dubai, Cam even tried to convince me that we should leave the airport, right then and there, and settle in this new and unfamiliar city. “We could find jobs here!” he offered.
I remember ambling towards agreement at the time. This was Cam’s way of saying he would never again board a plane with a child.
And yet, here we are: flying from Melbourne to California.
Hell, what am I saying? This flight is a mere 16 hours. It’s short in comparison to that marathon to London! This time, we’ve also got the comfort of flying business class – my first ever time, as a family (thank you, Future Employer of Cam).
The catch? This time, we have two additional children.
Here are the questions catapulting through my head:
▪ How will two of us cope with juggling three children aged one, two, and three?
▪ How do we endure that while carrying about 10 suitcases, a portacot, and a pram?
▪ How will our fellow passengers manage this whopping, no holds barred assault on their once-peaceful business class fare?
▪ Remind me again why we’re doing this?
I’ve packed the girls’ suitcases full of goodies. There’s stickers, play dough, crayons, iPads, water pens, an etch-a-sketch, and more. Sufficient? Maybe.
I’ve also packed Phenergan.