Don’t forget the kitchen sink:
I’d like to think me and Charlotte are pretty competent with knowing what we need for the kids when we brave it to the shops:
- Bottles for Amelia (at least 3)
- Nappies – 4 for each monster
- Emergency food for Noah
- Emergency change of clothes
- Sudocrem (and gallons of it!)
- Anything else that will potentially stop a child Armageddon
But, packing to go abroad with what was then, a 9 months old Noah and a pregant Charlotte of 15 weeks with Amelia. Before Charlotte and I had the monsters, and we were travelling abroad, we went out shopping for the new flash clothes and a nice pair of RayBans. Everything that was put into the bag had tags on. The only tags on the suitcases now are the ones that the girl behind the desk puts on the handle (after she applies another 15 layers of mascara to her acne-scarred face). So when we went to Spain for the first time, we packed the kids everything apart from the kids themselves:
- 10,000 baby grows
- 80,000 nappies
- 100 boxes of formula milk
- 4,000 packets of wet wipes
- 1,000 tubes of factor 500 sun cream
- One toddler
- One pregnant wife
- 1,000,000 tons of morale
- And a dash of good luck with fairy dust
I think that should do it!
We pack the car with every single item we own for the kids and a spare pair of charity shop clothes and flip flops for me and charlotte (if we have the space), and hit the road for our trip to the airport. Ten minutes in and Noah starts the water works, which then activates the “sort him out Charlotte, I’m driving” technique in me. Once Char stops telling me she can’t pull a miracle out of her arse, we carry on driving with a headache. Once we find the car park we are looking for, Noah obviously has a shit, which we change in a hurry before the airport buses decide to go on strike (again). Bags are on one shoulder, babies are on the other and we are ‘dad running’ (dad running consists of a slightly faster walking pace, however the extra speed doesn’t seem to make a difference in arrival time) to the bus stop.
We get our seats on the plane and pray that the empty seat next to us remains vacant. Does it fuck! And not only is the seat now taken, it has the fattest man in the world in it. He not only takes up his seat, but with the excess of his arse protruding out into the aisle on the left and more cellulite on the right resting on my lap, he must be a flight hazard. The most frustrating thing on a flight with a child of a young age is they aren’t entitled to a seat, therefore they must sit on your lap with an extender belt around them. But once you are in the air (for 2 and a half hours) they obviously get bored. They squirm around more than a live snake on a hot grill. With the lack of space already, a fed up toddler doesn’t help one bit. I’d rather threw myself down a flight of stairs, onto broken glass of which have been doused in asbestos and petrol, than do that again. I have never moved so fast in my entire life than when they fitted the staircase and opened the plane door. Usain Bolt would’ve struggled keeping up with this pissed of father, storming his way through the aisle, climbing over baggage and using old women as leaverage to get out of that fucking flying contraption sent by the devil himself.
This bit should be the best part. You get that little bag full of brand new designer clothes and RayBan’s, find a taxi driver and arrive at your hotel, just in time for happy hour, ordering 18 Sex on the Beaches, 18 Sambuca chasers and a masseuse to massage your hangover away to get you ready for the same antics the next day. Unfortunately, you must now grow another 25 arms to carry your pushchair, 16,000 bags of baby bits and the small Asda bag for life with mine and Char’s second-hand clothes and dog chewed flip flops to a coach full of football hooligans and TOWIE wannabes to the hotel. You arrive at the hotel which promised you 4-star service but was recently re-assessed to a 2-star shit tip, to carry everything up 18 flights of stairs because the lift always seems to be broken, to your tiny room with no A/C and cockroaches keeping the bed warm for you. Kids are tired and cranky, so you get them down for a nap (once you minesweeper clear the cockroaches) and promise to hit the mini-bar once they fall asleep. Only to wake up an hour later, holding a half drank bottle of formula in hand and a sore neck from falling asleep hanging over your child’s cot.
HAPPY FUCKING HOLIDAY!