Up...up...and away

I don't think I've ever been this organised for a holiday. The spare room looks like a section of baggage control at Heathrow. Everything is packed and stacked. Ready. I even high five myself for having thought of packing a few supermarket bags in case we get a bad nappy leak and need to stash some dirty clothes somewhere convenient. We have covered every possible issue, especially  LBM's anxiety. For weeks we have been reading books on airports and spent hours looking at photos of Gramps and Oumi and their dogs, the house and the pool and even pictures of the inside of aeroplanes. I think we literally have bought the entire stock of sticker books from the Range. Relaxed parents, relaxed child is our motto and it is certainly working. LBM is in a smashing mood and everything is running like clockwork. Twelve hours on an overnight flight to Africa. What could possibly wrong?

LRUN is feeling pretty smug, that we now get priority boarding. You know the scenario....hundreds of impatient tourists queueing in an "orderly" manner, all fighting to get on board first. And then 'ding', they call the parents with children first and everyone huffs and puffs and shuffles out the way as a bunch of buggy laden parents scutter forward looking holier than thou. However, in our case,  we seem to have just got ushered into a corner where they announced the flight would now be delayed while they fix some seats. So here we are, all seven families squashed into a corner with increasingly tired and irritated toddlers. Apart from LBM...he is still in the best of spirits, running about in his jim-jams, shouting "airpane" on top of his voice. Until.....my friends, until.....he then projectile vomits all over LRUN and most of the families in this now 'not so priority' corner. And then...again.

I grab him and dash off to the toilets, by-passing the stewardesses shouting " I hope you have your boarding pass" to which I shout "yes" but to be honest, that was about all I had. I look in my perfectly packed handbag, which contains absolutely nothing useful for a vomit festival. Back in the priority corner of love, I find LRUN alone mopping up vomit with a bunch of baby wipes lent to him by thoughtful fellow parents. Priority boarding has already commenced and as the last family left, we are directed into a lift. After a few minutes, I fear this lift is not moving. Nervously I press those all too familiar double arrows to open the door and yup, there we are, still in fricking priority corner. Witnessing all the other now smug looking passengers boarding. And so we board in amongst them with a vomit covered husband and stressed out toddler. We find our seats, which is about all I can find. Where the hell are those bloody plastic bags I packed?? LBM is looking pretty green and just as we start travelling down the runway, he blows again. Big time. I jump up to grab some paper towel from the kitchen station. Paper towel? Paper fricking towel? Why didn't I pack that? The stewardess sternly yells at me to sit down. Until she sees the sea of vomit.  She brings us blankets to cover the seats and ourselves and insist he sits in his own seat. By this point LBM is a mess. Both physically and emotionally. He falls asleep in his cocoon of spew and I look over to the dear old lady in the next aisle. She is looking at us pitifully. I have to laugh. I did not, I repeat....I did not factor this into the equation.