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| Baby Bang-Bang at 24 weeks |
There is nothing like the raw terror of contemplating a transatlantic journey through the skies in a few days hence, as lone accompanying parent of three boys (one of whom is nearly a six month old), to get me up and blogging again.
I know I've been lame...mega-lame in fact. These past few months have flown by in a flurry of childcare, domestic drudgery and the odd bottle of wine while crashed in front of lame tv - or more often than not passed out ridiculously early in bed, sighing ecstatically as my head made contact with the pillow.
But now the school year has ended, the angelic 'Auntie Ba' has departed from these shores, and it's time once again to journey to the homeland of our forefathers ('Oh Canada') and pay our annual visit to friends and relatives alike.
And I'm looking forward to the upcoming journey later this week like a hole in the head. No, make that a root canal without anethsesia...in India. (I actually did that one, many years ago, so I know what I'm talking about.)
If I can get past the likelihood that definitely one - but more likely all three - will projectile vomit en route, have tantrums, get themselves locked in a too small an board toilet, soil themselves, spill the entire contents of their meal trays on their laps, have a wrestling match over the last remaining Nintendo with battery power, and scrap over which movie to watch on MY ipad (which i guarantee won't get a single look in by me)...well then I'm sure that our flight aboard a notoriously horrible charter airline will be just peachy keen.
(And by the way NO, I most vehemently do not give a damn that my misery will most likely result in good blogging fodder. I've already had the pleasure a few years back of being contacted by a site called 'Flights From Hell' or some such who asked if they could feature my blog on their site - so horrific was my journey. Been there done that. No, give me Virgin Upper Class, a nanny and nothing to report but 'the runner beans were a tad undercooked' and I'd be a happy girl.)
On that note, I'm off to pack: attempting to cram a summer's worth of clothes and accoutrements for myself, a baby and two boys into three measly bags. My summer footwear alone needs a bag of its own - poor Steve Madden jewel encrusted gladiators crying out for a proper showing given that the Great British Summer thus far has been about as inspiring as an glass of insipid fruit squash.
