48 Hours Until Fasten Your Seatbelts

You know when it has been SO long since you've done something (ahem...cough...uncomfortable silence...ie. this blog) that you can't possibly bring yourself to pick it up and do it again because it's so utterly shameful that so much time has passed?

Well there's nothing like an impending long-haul trip (as a SOLO PARENT!) to kick-start the fear, which in turn kick-starts the adrenaline, bypassing any lingering feelings of guilt and shame, and propelling you straight into the arena of 'public broadcasting' in the vain hope that misery shared is misery halved (or have I taken that one out of context?)

At any rate, I'm headed to the 'U. S. of Bloomin' A.' for a few weeks with:  an eight year old, a six year old, a 14 month old, three suitcases, one pushchair, 68 nappies, a too-small-never-worn Abercrombie and Fitch string bikini, and a heavy heart laced with dread.  You see, the husband isn't coming this time.  And the prospect of holding (or let's be honest, RESTRAINING) a 14 month old (who is under the illusion that he's two) on my lap for nine hours with no 'pretending to be sleeping' husband in the next seat to whom I can offload the fat baby to...well, it's no wonder I'm scared.

But I'm nothing if not determined (ask any salesgirl who has initially held the foolish notion that they would not be issuing me a refund), and given that the reward for journeying through hell and back (well you can't discount the return journey can you?) is some much needed time hanging out with my dearest Dad, the much-beloved procurer of copious amounts of chocolate eggs and other Easter goodies (not to mention much needed good advice!) - I'm just going to have to grimace and bear it.  Somehow.

Life being what it is, I was not the least bit surprised when the fat baby leaned over in bed just a few moments ago and puked all over the husband...and the clean sheets.  Of course he did.

Anyone want to take bets on whether I'll be arriving in Florida smelling of vomit, clad in biscuit crumbs (which over the total 14 hour journey time will mean I'll have plenty of time for it to harden into some sort of putrified 'mummy-like' mess) whilst trying to persuade a rather stern U.S. Customs agent that I do indeed have permission from my husband to be taking my kids out of the country despite being not in possession of the necessary letter - due to the fact that I was too busy trying to surreptitiously empty out Egg and Dumpies carry-ons of liquid glue, remote control cars and toy guns to remember to stuff it in my bag.

And so it goes...