IT'S A DAD'S LIFE:All set for a family trip to Italy, but where are the passports? asks ADAM BROPHY
YOU PICK a time of year when you know the weather will be good. You plan a getaway. You book tickets a little cheekily, that is you book them when they are cheap, that is during term time. You do, however, tell teacher of your plans. She looks envious, but you remember she has two months of holidays coming. You get ready. You go.
Travelling with kids. You’re not travelling: you’re herding, managing, calming, appeasing, politicking. You are assaulting the senses of the world, the sensitive world, the grown up with adult tastes world, with the noise of your life. You need to prepare.
And we usually do. After our first recce, when the elder was still a baby, a flight to Portugal, a young man with wispy beard and Ripcurl T-shirt leaned over and addressed the missus as we landed: “Dude, when I saw you coming down the aisle with that baby in your arms I thought, no man, this can’t be happening. I do not deserve this. But, man, you were so cool, you had everything planned man, that baby rocked through the flight. So do you. You are one cool momma.”
Needless to say El Coolio missus lapped this up. Ever since, she has regaled virgin parent travellers with tales of her commitment to smooth air transport and on more than one occasion mentioned her commendation from ole Freewheelin Franklin on his way to Portugal.
As a result she has raised her game with every subsequent trip abroad. When the younger came along, the missus went ahead and doubled her efforts.
We have card games, colouring books, jigsaws, dolls and teddies, all compressed into space allowable for overhead storage. These are aligned with fluids and nutritional snacks to maintain hydration levels and manageable temperaments.
The missus floats on approving murmurs from surrounding rows, and I bask in the missus’s splendour. Sometimes I manage to read. In recent times she has become so confident as to allow me sit in the emergency exit row alone to take advantage of extra leg space while she manages proceedings elsewhere. If you disregard manoeuvring the herd through terminals without hurting themselves or others, air travel has become as close to pleasure as is possible in a compressed tube.
Organisation is the key. Last Friday morning. Organising for a week in Rome with glamorous sister-in-law and her handsome Italian beau, Aoife y Morgan, our family’s answer to Brangelina. “Have you checked the passports?”
“Nah, have you?”
Passports procured. The younger isn’t coming, hers is two months out of date. She is a little miffed by this when we tell her not to answer the door to strangers. “I’m four,” she says.
When your organisational house of cards crumbles you fall back on other assured levels of maturity and compassion in order to forge ahead and overcome difficulty.
“I can’t believe you didn’t check the passports. For Chrissake, you’re supposed to be organising this holiday. Do I have to look after every detail?”
I would like to say this was her to me, but no, suddenly when things fall apart I turn into Mr Sanctimony. She is incredulous.
"I packed for all of us. I bought the tickets. I sorted accommodation and airport transfers . I have food and entertainment ready. I have sun factor, after sun, moisturiser, beach towels, flip flops and a selection of eye protection to hand. All week long you watched reruns of The King of Queens. And this is my fault?"
I wave her away with a disparaging hand gesture, assured once again that if you want something done right, hire someone to do it for you.
I am despondent and defeatist. The younger and I will stay home, there is no way airport security will let us through the warzone that is Departures with iffy documentation.
Hangdog: “You go on ahead, have a great time, we’ll be fine here. We’ll eat frozen lasagne and watch Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn flirt on DVD.”
I get slapped and told to pack the car, that we only have a shot if we go and ask. Seems reasonable.
And here we are. All week long our superchic, tanned and urbane hosts have guided us through an intricate web of authentic Roman life. I have learned to gulp cappuccino before moving next door for a ‘coffee’, not to take offence crossing on a green light, and to eat and eat and love it.
There is still a scrap of humanity at the Aer Lingus desk, I wouldn’t have fancied our chances with the other crowd. Mmm, pizza for breakfast.