The joys of toddler travel

Over the last couple of years we have become what I would consider veteran toddler travellers, as opposed to the virginal variety when I first started this blog.  There is not a lot that we can’t handle now, well so we liked to think…then our favourite Australian airline, made famous by juvenile choirs hanging off cliff faces and traipsing through waves, threw us a curve ball.

In a moment of questionable clarity, we booked seats on the red eye out of Brisbane. Ordinarily flights to our nation’s capital take just over an hour.  With a just-after-5am scheduled departure, we would be in Canberra close to 8am (allowing for daylight saving) and we would have the whole day ahead of us for touring the sights. Whilst it would mean a 3am wake up call, we thought it would be worth it. That was our first mistake…

Things were going along swimmingly.  

Then…across the loud speaker came the announcement passengers always fear… ‘Would passenger O’Connor please come to the service desk adjacent to Gate 16, passenger O’Connor?’

Daddy O’Connor headed over with the ever-trailing toddler. He returned wearing a wry smile, yet appeared somewhat ill at ease. ‘They just had to change our seats.’ He declares confidently. What he wouldn’t tell me was why.

  

With a prompt departure on the cards and the promise of breakfast, things were looking up.  Well…as much as things can when airline food is on the menu. The captain reassured us that we were on time and he would have us disembarking in Canberra at 8am. Something to look forward to.

Toddlers on a grounded plane...
more terrifying than the cinematic great, Snakes on a plane

Sadly mistaken…

Along with the announcement of our descent, the captain informed us of a heavy fog in Canberra (something I have since discovered is not an unusual occurrence).  Several planes have had difficulty landing and we were in a holding pattern, circling the nation’s capital. Twenty minutes later, the captain reassured us that the weather had cleared enough for 50 000kg of metal to come hurtling down towards the runway. A sharp descent ensues, followed by a severe case of whiplash as the plane is wrenched back up into a vertical position, reminiscent of Maverick and Goose.

Apparently not. All the while the short one snored on.

OK. I got the distinct impression that we were now going a lot higher than if we were just continuing our circling idea. Nope, I think we have gone back to altitude and we seemed to be suspiciously heading in a straight line as opposed to banking right…Sure enough our friendly captain returned with more good news…Sydney anyone? Apparently the weather is fine there.

It is about now that my beloved informed me of the reason why we were moved.  It was not because of the captain’s dislike for small children after all.  It appeared that one of the instruments on the plane was malfunctioning.  It was about now that I turned to Paul with eyes like saucers and said in a particularly measured way, ‘Two words that should never be placed together in a sentence are plane and malfunctioning.’

He went on to say that he didn’t want to worry me. Well, why in God’s name had he chosen this particular point in time to worry me instead?  That same particular point in time when the bloke up the front in the hat and stripes had just told us that he couldn't get this hunk of metal safely on the ground because he couldn't see anything; that we had just about run out of fuel after circling Canberra for over 40 minutes; and that our type of aircraft did not have a vital instrument that allowed pilots to land planes safely in fog…

Right, so let me get this clear…not only did we have malfunctioning instruments, we also had missing instruments. We were cruising at around 700km per hour, we were stuck up at a great altitude…and we were about to run out of fuel.

Look, I am no pilot, granted. But you would think that IF we were scheduled to arrive in Canberra in the early hours of an autumn morning, in a valley notorious for heavy fog, one would allocate a plane that had all the bits to do it. Clearly not. It is far better customer service to cancel a flight. Re-direct passengers to another state.  Disembark all passengers – including the dead weight of a sleeping three year old. Not offer any customer service or assistance. Make you walk the entire length of Sydney airport, carrying aforementioned dead weight. Make you queue for a further 15 minutes while your boarding passes are re-issued. Then tell you that your new aircraft (with working bits) is scheduled to leave on time at 11am. 

Our new friendly and one hopes competent captain informs us that as soon as the aircraft is re-fuelled we’ll be on our way. Fifty minutes later we are still sitting on the tarmac while we await the re-fuelling crew…

For God’s sake, give me the bloody keys and I’ll take it down to the servo myself!

Jemima and Daddy catching up on email

Hairdressing for toddlers

I have just spent the last half hour googling how to remove papaw cream from hair. 


Strange past time you may think...but obviously one that many have ventured into before I came along. Bizarrely, I got so far as to type in 'removing petr' into Google when it auto filled - removing petroleum jelly from hair. Now, that's just a little bit random. Just how many people out there engage in this unconventional beauty regime?


I had only finished saying today that the short one's hair was a little dry and I have had to add conditioner into her overall pampering package. Clearly she decided that she would take it just that little step further and empty the entire contents of a tub of papaw cream onto her head. Simply not satisfied with just sticking with the personal grooming session, she also decided that the wooden floors needed a bit of a wax, as did the side tables. So much so that on my entering the room to investigate the progression of the supposed afternoon sleep, I go for a skate across the room to land unceremoniously on the bed.

At that point in time, I saw the glistening head of said three year old telling me, 'My hair is lovely and clean...' all the while rubbing it like some unhinged hairdresser. It was about then that I realised the extent of the disaster that now befalls me. One empty 200g tub of petroleum jelly-type product plastered all over the bedroom and child's head.

Closely following this revelation, I lose the plot and start screaming like a mad woman, 'What have you done?' to which she exclaims (as if it is some important consideration at this point of time), 'I'm OK.'

'That's great - but what about my floor...my furniture...your hair?'

With the fervour of the aforementioned mad woman the child is thrown, futilely as it turns out, into the bath for a severe hair washing session...take it from me, shampoo, conditioner and water are no match for the aggressive stickability of papaw cream.

So this leads me back to my google search...removing petroleum jelly from hair.
Top answer on Yahoo answers - with some poor woman pleading for any assistance after trying everything....'Well... you won't do that again!' (You can almost hear the sanctimonious tone in the voice.)

Next website suggests I cut the hair. This is not looking good for a child with precious little follicle action as it is.

Next best options...cornstarch, cornflour, baby powder, baking soda, dish washing liquid...it's looking more like I'll be whipping up a batch of scones, or doing the dishes...

For now these options will have to wait. The child is finally sleeping, looking like some sort of grease monkey...and me well, I'm just shaking my head asking myself, 'Why me?'

Love to read

2012 marks the National Year of Reading in Australia. How wonderful! But as far as I am concerned EVERY year should be the National Year of Reading.

Snuggling down with a baby and a book is one of the most delicious ways of spending quality time with kids. Time so precious.

Research has overwhelmingly indicated that kids who are read to every day are well on their way to becoming readers themselves, before they even step foot into a classroom.

Reading is the most highly valued skill in the world.  Rightly or wrongly, literacy skills are probably the most definitive indicator of social class and future success; more so than any other discipline in the world of education.

Last night, I went to an event at the State Library where renowned children’s book author Mem Fox spoke about reading to children. Her enthusiasm and passion for reading is infectious.  So much so that on leaving one of her sessions you could be excused for abducting some poor unsuspecting child just so that you could read to them!

During her intro, it was revealed that 6 out of 10 children in Queensland are read to regularly. Mem celebrated this statistic – exclaiming how wonderful it was. But how wonderful would it be if it was 10 out of 10!

Here are my tips to try and reach that goal in 2012, the Year of Reading…

• Ten minutes a day – that’s all it takes. 
• Join your local library – they are free and regularly offer storytelling sessions for toddlers and young children.
• Check out www.love2read.org.au - heaps of tips, activities, support and events.
• Instead of showering kids with chocolate this Easter – consider buying them a book - oh and a handbag so they can accessorise while reading (upside down!)

• Get dad or granddad in on the act – or any other significant male to show that boys can read too!

• Have a selection of age appropriate, inviting, exciting, interesting and wonderful books on hand and within reach – do not squirrel them away for good – books are meant to be thumbed, chewed, slobbered on…it is a sign of love!

• Read a good night story or five to kids, then leave them with some books to read to themselves in bed.  What a gorgeous habit to foster! (And I guarantee they will fall asleep and have sweet dreams)

• Love the moment, revel in the beautiful words, bring the book to life with enthusiasm and joy.

But above all, have fun!

Yummy mummies

‘Yummy mummies’ – one of those inane expressions that sadly gained momentum because some literary genius noticed that two words rhymed. More’s the pity they didn’t just stick with creating hugely imaginative monikers for celebrities – such as the likes of JLo, Brangelina or TomKat.

Whilst the term is irritating – there is a definite ‘type’ of mummy lurking out there. The type that must be seen, be heard, be admired…

These 'yummy mummies' appear to be doing all the right things, wearing all the right gear, going to all the right places, while parading their offspring like some sort of achievement trophy…but scratch the surface and there seems to be a whole other agenda.

These mummies seem to vicariously live through their kids, gaining some bizarre pleasure out of embroiling themselves in their activities. No doubt some clinical psychologists would suggest that these mummies suffered at the hands of their own parents, and now they are able to turn their lives around.  But the question has to be asked, for who?

Let kids be kids; let kids revel in their own fun; let kids explore, risk take and be independent; let the umbilical cord be severed. 

Otherwise, we are at risk of rearing a generation of over-indulged, over-protected, overly dependent young adults who feel they are owed something.

The cure for boredom is curiosity.
There is no cure for curiosity. Dorothy Parker

Now you are three

Time passes by as quickly as can be,

Now our baby is turning three.

Born on a Tuesday, so full of grace

Surrounded in love and wraps of lace.

A mother’s touch, a mother’s kiss,

Welcomed you to a world of bliss.

A father’s caress, a father’s arms,

Left you safe and far from harm.

Now you are three, no longer our baby.

Our arms outstretched to let you free.

Exploring the world with wide opened eyes,

Curiouser and curiouser, with so many why’s.

Our love abounds each and every day,

As we watch you blossom in such a way.

We know you will make us proud for all time,

Our baby you will be forever, just you, all mine!

What's in a number?

Mathematics has never been my forte. When people start talking numbers at me, my eyes glaze over and I furiously start to scramble for a page-turner in the conversation.

But strangely enough, numbers seem to haunt me, particularly in relation to the family unit.

People astound me that they feel they have the right to tell you how many times you should procreate. If I had a dollar for every time I have heard…’so when is the next one coming along…must be time to have another baby…you can’t just have the one…’

Unless I have sought your professional medical opinion and you are equally qualified to give it – I see little value in these opinions, offered all to readily and unsolicited.

I have heard all the reasons why you should never have an ‘only child’.  Random people feel it is their purpose in life to warn you against your erroneous ways: always spoilt; can’t socialise with others; can’t share; have behavioural issues; selfish…the list goes on.

Well, I have started a list of my own, based on actual research, as opposed to anecdotes, personal experience and old wives’ tales.

Only children:

• are as well adjusted as their peers with siblings
• have higher self-esteem
• have higher IQs
• have good language skills and
• are more likely to be strongly independent.

As Michael Grose declares in his book, “Why First Borns Rule the World and Last Borns Want to Change It”,

If self-esteem and school achievement levels are used as a barometer of a healthy, well-adjusted and desirable childhood then most parents would stop at one.

Nearly one in five children are ‘only children’ and this statistic is likely to increase with the parallel pressures of finances, career, maternal age and care.

I recently came across this…

The English words 'only child' might sound as if there are not enough children. The French words for only child - 'un enfant unique' and the Italian 'un filio unico' mean that the child is special - only one of a kind!

…which I have adopted.  Our precious little one is most definitely an 'un enfant unique.'

Numbers never enter the equation.

Five ways to diffuse the terrible twos!

Firstly, can I say that who ever coined the phrase 'terrible twos' obviously had one that was so terrible that it never made it to three.  After sailing through the twos with minimal backwash, I was rudely awakened by something nearing a head injury by the time three loomed.

Freud would say the short one is in the anal stage; Piaget would consider her preoperational; Erikson would declare a conflict between autonomy versus shame and doubt. Me…well, I would just say she is confused.

The confusion stage appears to be emanating from a lack of clarity around who is actually in charge.  Clearly in my confused state of mind, I am under the misunderstanding that I am in charge. And just as clearly, she is under another misunderstanding that by the time one reaches the ripe old age of three that she is.

I have had to consider some strategies lately to try and survive this battle of wits.

Here are the top 5 toddler diffusers:

1.     Choices – limited to two. Just make sure that you are happy with your short one doing either choice.  Gives them a sense of control, while you are in fact retaining it all.  Gotta love that gig!

2.     Appeal to their ego – being that this age is egocentric you can’t go wrong here.

3.     Humour – someone once said that the precursor of the mirror is the mother’s face so…mirror their behaviour. Make them see how ridiculous they look thrashing around on the ground, screaming ‘I hate you, you’re mean.’ Perhaps not a recommended strategy in the middle of the small goods section in Coles, unless of course you have no shame.

4.     Try reasoning with a literal being – this is always cause for a good laugh and instant diffusion. Explaining potential consequences for one’s actions to a child who is developmentally unable to infer usually results in further confusion; but an entertaining conversation nonetheless.

5.     And if all else fails - become your own mother…hear yourself saying those expressions you swore you would never say…

a.    Just wait until your father gets home  or

b.    Do that again and I’ll (insert own preferred consequence)

The short one said to me just the other day, ‘Mummy, my eyes keep leaking.’ And she’s right. We have probably had our fair share of crying lately attributed to holiday season tiredness, frustration, excitement, disappointment and anticipation.

So the next time you find your face springing a leak, grab that repair kit and give them a big hug.

Happy New Year xx

Show time

There comes a point in most people's lives when they first experience the cinematic surround sound of a movie theatre. From the days of old with the piano player in the pit, to the 'talkies', to the full on sensory assaulting experience that it is today, it has almost become a rite of passage. 

For some weeks now, the short one has been enamoured with the movie poster littered all over town of an oversized Puss in Boots. Being that it is the holiday season, and apparently that is what you do, Team O'Connor thought they might as well check it out. Probably not our first choice of movie, being that we haven't seen inside a movie theatre in three years, but we thought a safe option. 


Whilst the short one has ventured to the movies before with dad, all they have managed to see was the foyer. Bright lights, Dolby surround, darkened rooms all appeared a little too overwhelming. With this firmly in the back of our minds we checked out the cinema's return policy. Ten minutes of the flick, not your cup of tea? Guaranteed money back. Ten minutes grace we had... 

But we need not have worried. Short one sailed through the viewing, peppered with a few tears in the sad bits, smiles in the funny bits, and a bowel motion three quarters of the way through... Got to love toddlers and movies!

A journey is best measured in friends, not miles.

Tim Cahill

Five thousand.  That seems quite a lot.

Apparently it is the largest isogrammic number in the English language. As of today, it is also the number of hits this blog has attracted since its inception.

What started out over 12 months ago as a travel journal has morphed into something resembling a part-time soapbox, a philosopher’s muse, a journey of discovery.

Thanks everyone for being a part of that journey. I hope you have enjoyed the ride.

Complacency is the curse of the underprepared

Oscar Wilde once famously declared that work is the curse of the drinking class. How true that is during the festive season!  A time when overindulgence is par for the course and work interferes in having a good time.

For the first time in my working career, I will be working over Christmas, only pausing for breath on the public holidays. So with this restriction in mind, I thought it a good idea to have 15 people over for a Christmas dinner party, have all the Christmas shopping done by the first week in December, meet incredibly ridiculous timelines at work, and launch the family into another jet-setting holiday.

Yes, that is right.  Twelve months ago, as this blog will attest, we embarked on our European adventure with a travelling toddler in tow.  I once famously declared that I was an experienced single traveller, yet an apprentice baby traveller.  You would have thought that I would have learnt my lesson. This time round though, I am feeling far more confident, perhaps too much so…or is it just a case of I haven’t had time to think about it!

In less than two weeks, our little family will be getting on another plane and heading off into the sunset.  And…I have planned nothing!

Things are a little different for this trip though.  The short one is over that magic age of two years, entitling her to her own seat and ensuring more revenue for strike-plagued QANTAS; we are only flying for 2 ½ hours as opposed to 22 ½ hours; we won’t be encountering language difficulties; we will be using the same currency; and we have built in babysitters at the other end.

So…I think I deserve to be somewhat complacent…now where did I put that child?