HAVING brought the first born to Perth when she was just a year old (and I don't mean Scotland) we tended toward the opinion that no travelling was beyond our capacities. The fact that we hadn't been airborne in two years was just a matter of finance, not logistics - let alone nerve - we told ourselves.
However, as we taxied for our take off to New York, with the now three year old and her baby sister in tow, it became all too clear that flying with kids was a trauma we had blocked, not a pleasure we had deferred.
How in God's name were we going to stick more than seven hours on this plane? Seven virtually sleep free daylight hours? With nothing to look forward to at the other end but the hospitality of JFK Airport's baggage claim area and an hour or two in late afternoon metropolitan traffic?!
All Just Do It passion seemed to seep into the literary scrawls on the new look Aer Lingus upholstery, as I suddenly copped the reason for our diminished thrill seeking of late: we have kids - beautiful, vivacious, awkward, unmalleable kids. Their mother claimed she knew it all along.
As for preparation, it's as well this is anonymous or some nosey reader would report us to the health board. Nappies (my department, the soiled public face [sic] of New Dad), books, Rosie and Jim magazine, cuddly toys, yeah, we had all them. Food for the baby? Woops - only what mother brings naturally. No encouragement, either, from the meal trolly long before it reached us, the flight attendant's refrain came up the aisle again and again: "No, I'm sorry, there's no chicken left, only beef."
Baby turned out to be fairly satisfied with chewed up vegetables and the crackers from the cheese n crackers well in the meal tray. It was at least as much as she deserved, because she gave us - albeit unwittingly - the greatest gift of this journey: our seats, behind a bulkhead, with acres of leg room where a table could fold down for her "bassinet".
No, this wasn't some obscure instrument donated by the RTE Concert Orchestra. It wasn't much of anything, really. Just a low slung cardboard box that might have done service on Moore Street before being dusted down for Aer Lingus baby duty. The three year old played in it for a while - until we got a quasi official "that table is not meant for her weight" warning - and then it worked superbly as the family rubbish bin.
While the baby tried out her air legs with repeated laps of the bulkhead (with parent attached), the three year old got out the coloured pencils, scissors and gluestick and turned her attention to the cosy, kid size space under the table. Fine. She wasn't going fit "my Aer Lingus friend" the sweet flight attendant, in there with her so off she went down the aisle, returning with a new four year old pal for her "tent". Grand.
After an extraordinary period of peace, we peered in - fully expecting to see fragments of in flight magazines, sick bags, blankets and literary upholstery glued to the carpet. Instead we saw two girls silhouetted in the dark, chatting about grannies and America, the static electricity making their hair rise to form a bridge between them.
Flying with kids. Gotta love it.
