Plane Exhausting

Travelling with Rachel is tough. My telly addict daughter chooses the moment we embark on an 8 and a half hour flight to lose all interest in in television. Usually I can't get her to turn CBeebies off, but when I am actually encouraging her to watch something, she couldn't care less. She likes what she calls 'fulms', especially 'Wiz and Woz' (Wizard of Oz) with the 'wucked wutch.' British Airways actually offer the choice of CBeebies programmes and loads of kids' films and music and stories, but she was having none of it. Actually her IFE (In Flight Entertainment) screen didn't work, so I had her on my lap watching mine. She was being so fickle though, watching less than a minute of something before demanding something else. It was exhausting. The cabin crew kept trying to restart her screen but it kept failing and in the end, I told them it was highly unlikely I would be able to watch anything myself anyway, so not to worry.

I should explain, I was flying alone with the two girls so there was no other adult to pass Rachel to when she got annoying (- which was from the word go). Mark and I had planned to travel to Grenada as a family on stand-by tickets, but as the departure date came closer, the plane began to fill up, and we ran a greater risk of not getting out at all. We had been invited to stay with my uncle Richard and partner Rick who had rented a house there for six weeks. We thought to play safe, us girls would try to go out on Sunday's flight and ease the pressure on the seats left on Tuesday's flight. I was quite willing to go first, if it all worked out, a 10 day, rather than a week's holiday in Grenada was definitely something I could live with. (Mum had gone there for a week and ended up not coming home at all.)

Anyway, a couple of hours into the flight, midway over the Atlantic, Rachel starts up with "I want to go home, get me out of here!" She is on a loop. "I want go HOME, I want GO HOME." I start to feel like I had abducted her. I try everything; food, drink, toys, colouring, stickers, little walk down the plane, but she won't be distracted. Reasoning is hopeless. She complains of tummy ache but won't go to the loo. She was scared witless by the loud flush when I had to go. She also, unbeknown to me, had a slight wee accident which I didn't discover until later when I managed to persuade her to use the toilet. She is tired and stretches out over my knees. She reaches up to play with the catch that holds the tray in place, unclips the table and it falls down and hits her smack in the face. Tears ensue. Eventually, she falls asleep in my arms and I manage to watch about three quarters of Johnny English - Reborn.

All too soon she wakes up and it starts again immediately, "I want go home." I look at the flight information and note with despair that it we still have 5 and a half hours to go, until we land in Barbados (where we have another hour stopover before flying on.)

Later, after a few rounds of Old McDonald Had A Farm, with the help of the animal glove we have, she cheers up, and we take Emilia down the plane to the loo. Emilia likes to go in on her own but doesn't like to lock the door, so I have to stand guard. It occurs to me now, that the light doesn't go on unless you lock the door in these aeroplane toilets, so poor girl must have been sitting in the dark in there. Rachel shouts loudly through the door "Don't forget to wipe your bottom and wash your hands!"

The other problem flying with Rachel is that she can't keep her seatbelt on, so that is an argument we have to have over and over again. The meals are a good time waster and keep Rachel busy trying to open the milk sachets and pouring drinks. She wants to drink all the milk and I have to keep asking for more, so there is some left for my tea. Trying to open enough sachets to fill a cup is irritating and time consuming but hey we've got plenty of that, so I don't argue the point.

The food is actually surprisingly good, which is just as well really as my compulsion to finish up anything the children don't eat, even extends to food I don't actually like. My lunch consists of 3 Goats cheese salads, the first two of which I really enjoy, by the third one, less so, followed by most of a Shepherds Pie and Cajun chicken dish. Emilia manages two plastic bowls of chocolate profiteroles and I only get a whole one to myself as the lady who was sitting in front gave us hers.

I don't think I have ever spent so much time getting up and down to visit the loos on a flight before. It was a good job we did not have anyone to squeeze past. At least three of the times that Rachel professed to needing to go, were when the seat belt sign was on. I had to make apologetic faces at the cabin crew and undertake to go at 'my own risk.' As far as I was concerned the risk of not falling in with Rachel's plans is far greater.

I read aloud the nine stories in the First Experiences book, 144 pages worth, at least three times through in various orders. I also allowed the girls to drink miniature cans of lemonade, a treat which probably accounted for the number of toilet visits. They joined the group of noisy Italians who were queuing up at the back of the plane, for more alcoholic miniatures. That is certainly one way to while away the journey, but unfortunately not an option that was open to me.

We also had to harass the cabin crew for more juice. Rachel was frightfully peeved when she discovered I'd finished her juice off rather than sitting there with an open cup waiting for her to take one sip every 10 minutes. 'Where my juice? Get 'nother one. You 'noying me.' So off we go again down the back - where she gets one for herself and one for 'Belia - not you!'

Also, she decides as soon as the IFE is unavailable, on the ground in Barbados and during take off and landing, she is suddenly desperate to watch CBeebies. Contrary or what?

On finally landing in Grenada, we are leaving the plane and she turns and says with a wave 'Bye, bye air plane - that fun!'

We waited for ages in the queue for immigration and I realise it is now about 11pm in England and she has not slept much more than an hour the entire day. She is tired and starts up complaining again. "Want go home" - this time I am grateful though, as it seems that everyone else in the queue also wants her to go home, and we are propelled to the front by the friendly, noisy Italians.

Once through, we were met by Mum tanned and energetic, and more than willing to take her on. Rachel continued to bounce off walls and swim and explore the hotel until 2am English time.

I am really hoping we are all, including Mum, on the same plane, on the way home, otherwise, I might insist that this time I'm taking the boys.

Snow in the Fridge

The threat of snow last weekend gave us some unexpected visitors on Saturday night. My Aunt Liz and Uncle Stephen (or Ankle Stephen as Rachel pronounces it) decided that because of the weather forecast, they would take up my offer of a bed for the night, before their flight from Gatwick on Sunday morning. I love having people to stay but we were in the throes of swopping all the bedrooms around so it was a fairly chaotic scene for them to arrive into.

Previously, guests had been tucked away on the top floor in our spare bedroom/Mark’s study, but Mark had just finished painting it to be our bedroom and we’d half moved in, so the guests are now relegated to the slightly less private, smallest bedroom, next to the bathroom (soon to be Patrick’s.) It is not an ideal position, apart from the obvious bathroom disturbances, it also has the mouse cage right outside the door. So late that night, I found myself creeping along the landing to quieten the mice, for fear they may be keeping our guests awake. The person who came up with the phrase ‘as quiet as a mouse’ was clearly not talking about the caged variety. I shooed them off and disabled their running wheel.

I needn’t have been concerned about the mice waking Stephen and Liz though, far more intrusive was Rachel, who barged into their room at half past two in the morning, dazed and confused and looking for me.

The next day, the snow came as predicted, but Stephen and Liz got away to Grenada (albeit a little delayed) and seemed none the worse for their interrupted night.

The children were all keen to pile out in the snow, and once I had unearthed all the waterproofs and gloves and snow gear, (why do I never believe it will snow until it’s here?, I am never prepared) then sledging and igloo building fun was had by all. All the neighbours and children were out in the street defending their fortresses from snowball attacks and generally being the sociable neighbours we are, with coffees and hot chocolates all round.

Come Monday, the snow was thawing fast and it was school as usual. Ben and Patrick were mucking about in it on the way to school, and got bawled out for throwing snowballs by the head teacher, who was on the war path. This was mainly directed at Ben; this is the boy who reckons he might be the only child in his class not to have been told off this academic year, so there goes his perfect record. Ben looked stunned to say the least.

I felt sorry for him being yelled at and I told Dad about it when I got home from the school run. Dad told me that this Monday was also the anniversary of a walloping he’d had from a teacher at school. ‘His dancing trauma’ he described it as. The circumstance was the death of King George, which was announced on the radio during a music and movement class he was doing. They interrupted the broadcast and said that all programmes were cancelled (as a sign of respect) and solemn music was played instead. It was at this point that my Dad, aged 7, continued with his dancing, whereupon the teacher clobbered him for his disrespect. He has never danced since.

Dad had the utmost sympathy for Ben and gave it when he saw him after school. Dad reasoned that the head just wasn’t going to win that one, and she’d have a tough old fight with that particular issue, as boys had been throwing snowballs since time began! Ben, being Ben, pointed out ‘Well actually Grandpa, I think you’ll find it wouldn’t be since time began, as it was quite a lot hotter then and there wouldn’t be any snow, I think you probably mean since the first snow.’

‘Ahh yes, Ben, you are right, I would mean that.’

While smart Alec, Ben, was correcting Grandpa on the weather evolution starting ‘when time began,’ my other son was collecting snowballs and putting them in the fridge.

...and Lady Boys

I am now thinking it is Patrick I should be more concerned about. Last night he was stood at the kitchen sink washing his hands, wearing his school uniform and a pair of pink high heeled dress up shoes.

“I wish I was a girl “ he sighed.

I am hoping it was the extra height and not the shoes he was coveting. I think he was just enjoying how easily he could now reach the sink in his heels.

This cross dressing isn’t new to us – I have photos of Ben as a toddler in a Dalmation spotted coat and Mum’s heels, and at a similar age to Patrick, he disappeared upstairs and came down in one of Emilia’s dresses just to get a laugh.

We have never been gender specific about what they can and can’t wear or play with. I’ve never been keen on nail varnish on Emilia, and I am even less keen on it on Patrick. He went about with just one fingernail painted last weekend.

As far as the boys are concerned, they have generally stuck with their gender stereotypes in what they choose to play with. Although, I do remember once, when Ben and Emilia got to choose something out of the toy shop, while staying in Ireland, Ben, then 4, chose an Animal Hospital Ambulance complete with lady vet and injured swan, and Emilia, a ‘My Little Pony’. 

When we got back to Aunty Helen’s, it amused me to see, that Emilia was far more interested in the toy cars and road mat bought for cousin Jamie, and that Ben was enjoying playing with this lady vet. While Emilia was ‘brmming’ away, Ben remarked ‘Hasn’t the vet got beautiful hair?’

He reasserted his masculinity later though when I found him watching ‘Shed Heads.’

Me: ‘What are you watching Ben?’

Ben: ‘Just builders – don’t turn it off!’

I don’t actually mind what they play with, but that particular vet doll bothers me, I really think she should be wearing something under her white coat. What message is that giving really? I am not worried by nudity in dolls, whether in-anatomically or anatomically correct. I just think there should be consistency, why give her painted on pants and a sewn on skirt but naked bosoms under the removable coat? Surely she should have a t-shirt or something under there. Or maybe the coat wasn’t supposed to be removable...hmmm!