Flight of fancy

I think I'm just going to have to give into it.  I tried - desperately tried - to be a blogger who didn't talk exclusively about their baby.  Who still managed to have other facets to their life and to talk about them engagingly.  Unfortunately I don't.  Well, obviously I do.  I have friends and I do get the occasional moment to myself - but the meetings with friends tend to be centred around the baby, and the moments to myself tend to be an opportunity to read up on Baby-Led Weaning, or to Google ridiculous questions like, "Why do my baby's legs make a clicking noise?"

So, here I am, officially giving up.  Not blogging - though I doubt I'll ever return to my every-couple-of-days blogging.  But giving up trying to talk about anything other than my life as a mother.

So... recently we went to visit TheBloke(TM)'s family in South Africa.  This was very exciting, as it was the baby's first opportunity to meet her Granny and aunts, uncles and cousin.

"Don't worry," everyone told me.  "You've booked a night flight.  Babies go straight to sleep on flights."

These people are now known as Big Fat Liars.

Here is roughly what our schedule looked like.

5.30  p.m. Arrive at airport bang on time, unpack more stuff from car than I had when I left home for the first time.

6.00 p.m. Check in.  Go through security and take 90% of stuff out of our carefully-packed hand luggage (iPad, phones, Kindles) and take baby out of buggy.  Desperately try and cram everything back in.  It won't go.  Consider sacrificing a) baby or b) beloved Toby Bear.

7.00  p.m. Stick to our routine - a feed for the baby, some chill out time and a meal.  Baby is massively overstimulated by the airport and the waitresses make so much of a fuss of her, there is no chance of her sleeping before - say - next Tuesday.

9.00  p.m. Two minutes away from boarding.  The airline announces that families with young children may board. Baby takes this opportunity to do a massive stinky poo.  Try to change baby in departure lounge.  There are no bins.  Hand dirty nappy to airport staff and ask them to dispose of it.

9.30  p.m. Take-off.  I feed the baby to stop her little ears from hurting.  She falls asleep on me.  Little do I know that these five minutes of sleep are the only five minutes she will take for THE REST OF ETERNITY.

10.00  p.m. Air stewards helpfully bring out bassinet for the baby.  It is at the perfect height that a) TheBloke (TM) and I cannot see into it whilst we're seated and b) every passer-by who goes to the toilet looks in and coos at her.  Meaning she continues to fail to sleep.  She cries a lot.  I have become the person I don't want to sit next to on the plane.

10.30 p.m.-9 a.m.  Baby cries intermittently.  Then does a massive poo.  Again.  Finally she falls asleep.  I notice her arms are really puffy and panic a little bit.  We shove some Calpol down her little fat neck, with the belief that trying something is better than nothing.  Her wrists really are worryingly fat.

9 a.m.  Land at Johannesburg.  Try to find a) an internet connect to Google "baby swollen fat arms air travel" and b) change her outfit as the last poo was a leaky one.  No joy on the internet.  And no joy really with leaky poo.  It's hard to find joy in a leaky poo.

12 noon  Having failed to find an internet connection, we depart for Port Elizabeth.  Baby cries.  Again.

3 p.m.  Come in to land at Port Elizabeth.  I feed the baby to help her little ears.  I am exhausted, and fall asleep for the first time in about 36 hours.  Baby also falls asleep.  TheBloke (TM) wakes me to tell me that I've been asleep for the last fifteen minutes with my mouth wide open and one tit out.  People are now stopping on the way to the bathroom and not looking at the baby.

3.30 p.m.  We arrive.  And it's all worth it.  But please, please someone invent the teleport before our next visit.

4.30 p.m.  Have an internet connection and access to old photos.  Notice baby's wrists have always been ridiculously fat.  Pass out.