The Smell Of Fear

I am anxious. Ok, I'm petrified. In three days my brood and I shall be deposited (un)cerimoniously at Toronto Pearson to catch our no doubt shambolic Air Canada flight back to London, England. Bearing in mind that my flight companions consist of a teething, rambunctious 8 month old who's just found his voice and loves nothing more at the moment than to shriek loudly like a constipated bat, and a darling but scheming still as of yet not toilet-trained three year old...well you can see why apprehension looms menacingly.
Forget the logistics of how i'm going to cuddle and hold the two boys at once, or how i'm going to be able to supply breast-on-tap to one whilst coercing the other to sit in his chair and not 'go exploring' mid-flight. No, my problems are greater. You see I have this nightmare of dozing off sometime during the 8 hour flight, and waking to the shrieks or screams of a nearby passenger who has been abruptly woken by the placement of a soiled nappy in his lap by a mischievious little imp. I have horrors of opening my eyes to find the seat next to me empty and the aisle littered with cast-off clothes and Egg skipping merrily down the aisle, naked from the waist down, resembling less a jubilant bride than a pissed drunk lephrachan.

And suppose the boys decide to synchronize bowel movements as a way of getting me back for cutting off their supply of fruit roll-ups (BOTH boys are addicted...but that's another matter), and I have to manoever around two dirty bums, four waving arms and four kicking legs, all in the confines of a space no bigger than a phonebox...hmm? What then?

Based on the outward journey on my Air Canada flight, I have no choice but to admit that I am buggered. I am what they call, 'in for it'. I shall learn in eight hours more about what it means to be a parent than in the whole three years previous.

The only positive slant I can take on the whole situation is that perhaps I'll lose the plot entirely and just snap and we'll have to be escorted through security on one of those motorised buggies and instead of a grinning wife and two little cherubs, my husband shall be greeted by hell on wheels.

Darling, if you're reading this be afraid. Be very afraid.