Understandably, the 6am flight between Australia’s two biggest cities was full of businessmen and women trying to get that extra snooze in after getting up at some ungodly hour of the morning. So I could feel the inner sighing of some when I hopped on the plane – at the last minute, scraping by – with my two children.
Only one man smiled at my children, sideways, his look partially hidden under his long eyelashes. For that look alone, I adored him.
Still, I’m certain even he was sick of my children by the end of the flight:
Riley: “NO SEATBELT!!! NO!!!!! I WANT OFF!!”
Insert thrashing into the back of his seat and furious kicking of the seat in front.
Keira: “MY EARS HURT! THEY HURT! WHY ARE THEY HURTING? ARE WE IN SYDNEY YET?”
Insert hot tears, which were immediately forgiven as I know how bad it is to have sore ears on a plane.
But that wasn’t the end – oh, no! – because then we had a second flight to catch. By which time I’d learned to buy a box of tic tacs for them to suck on and I whipped out my laptop so they could watch Elmopalooza. Yes, when they were quiet and happy, I secretly high fived myself for making it back to my parent’s house alive. Where Riley fell into a three-hour coma-esque nap for being so tired, poor baby.
And now we’re here, happy, being looked after, and I knocked over Twilight in one gluttonous, self-indulgent reading session. Bliss.
