Happy Holiday

Well since the beginning of the year, I have done the rotational baby-sitting stint. Which for me means, going to the U.K to collect one child, taking said chosen child home to Spain, then returning to the U.K with aforementioned child and collecting another lucky smaller family member


Tiring, is not the word and I have definitely come to the conclusion that I am definitely getting too old for it all. It’s not just the air-travel, or wondering if the child will throw up all over someone on the plane, or attempt to knock the passenger in front out cold, with the ridiculous sized toblerone they insisted in buying in duty free


It’s the getting to the airport, usually via train, which is a mammoth task in itself, with a small child, two 10 kilo bags of hand luggage, sweets & sandwiches. Then the customary changes of trains and the krypton factor type task of finding the correct platform in Leeds station, not to mention finding the right train. I am worn out before I even start


 At the airport I am not usually too bad. Once I have got rid of the suitcase and paid the now seems compulsory excess baggage fee, after cursing Michael O’Leary, a couple of times, as if it’s his fault that my baggage was 1 kilo over, just because said child could not possibly be parted from Barbie & Ken, and had insisted squeezing them into the suitcase, together with the endless wardrobes, the plastic superstars needed for a couple of weeks away


I just want to get into departures and try figure out which the gate number will be, so I can get to the front of the queue, to be assured of a decent seat on the plane, not to mention the weight lifting exercise to squeeze the ‘hand luggage’ into the overhead cupboard.


At security its shoes off time, then try struggle with one hand to steer the said child in the right direction, whilst trying to squeeze the handbag into the already bulging case, without attracting too much attention, which is almost impossible as I am holding my jeans up at the same time. Bleep!! The child bleeps, coins in the pocket, always my downfall. Eventually we are through. I breathe almost there.


This time I have my two year old grandson with me, who everyone informs me, with a hidden spiteful glee, is a ‘handful’. My son says, ’watch him on the plane mum, he will throw things at the people in front, ‘He bloody well will not’, is my curt response.


‘He will scream informed my daughter his mother’, take plenty of nappies, he always has an accident. Great I thought happy holidays.


What really gets me is the fact that our children, seem to forget that hubby & I have spent the last 30 years bringing them up, which was not an easy task, and quite frankly a miracle my sanity survived, let alone them. Very short memories it seems


So why they should now  assume  ,that we would suffer some sort of amnesia whilst bringing a two year old from A to B is quite amusing, Perhaps they think we will  forget which end the nappy goes on? Or feed him Vindaloo? Or forget to ensure that he watches big cook little cook, and not let him loose on naughty Nigella, which in all honesty I am sure he would prefer, God forbid he will miss his bed time, or be in the same room, as half a can of San Miguel. I am sure they have memorised the child- line number for him to recite in case granny & Granddad have funny turns!


We had a good flight, he loved looking out of the window at the fluffy clouds, and seeing the houses out of the window, he ate his sandwich, was as good as gold, and the people in front were not decapitated, or abused in any shape or form.


This child came with a list of dos and don'ts,my hubby and I glanced at it, then threw it away, We were to busy watching Nigella, and drinking a much needed can of San Miguel, what’s next oh yes the Vindaloo, come on son try this.



Noooooooooo he cried, mummy said to ring this number




He He.