Travelling with small kids is challenging at any time, but tackling international air travel as a single parent with small ones in tow must be cause for a special medal to be cut and awarded.
We’ve never attempted this ourselves – not that we could’ve afforded it back when ours were small, just caravanning down to Pondalowie Bay for a couple of days strained the budget – but we each fell over an example of it in Heathrow.
It was in the earlier days of our air travels – 1988 we think – and we were transitting through London to Cork, and as you do, we needed the loos, along with half the population of the known world, or so it seemed to us. (Being from sedate old Auntie Adelaide, lordy lordy it took us a while to get our heads around the Heathrow madhouse!)
Herself, into the Ladies, all done, freshening up afterwards and, this being before the more enlightened times of having “Parent’s Rooms”, there was a young mum with two girls in tow aged about 2 and 3 years. Mum was looking harassed and hassled and clearly going out of her tiny mind after a long flight, and now in a rush to get through and not lose any kids in the process.
She bundles Miss Three into a cubicle, tells her to lock herself in and get on with it, and drags Miss Two – who’s doing a brisk cross-legged dance with an urgent “Mum! Mum!” - into another one nearby. They’re barely in when there’s an absolute howl of anguish from Miss Three down the way. Possibly loud enough to be heard by planes passing overhead.
“MUUUUM! – THERE’S A POO IN MY TOILET!!”
“What...?!”
“IT’S A POO! IT’S REALLY BIG!!”
“Shhhhh! – just – just - flush it down!”
(Sound of water gushing).
“MUUUUM! – IT WON’T GO DOWN! – IT’S FLOATING!!” – edge of hysteria in her voice, as if the thing is about to rise up and attack her.
(Major sigh from Mum) - “Ohhh f’gods sake!”
“MUUUUM! – I’M BUSTING!! I CAN’T USE IT WITH A POO IN IT!!”
(Sympathetic giggles from all mothers present).
“Julie! - just – just – oh f’gods sake – just WAIT!”
At which point Herself and all other women present exchange knowing smiles that speak volumes about motherhood and she leaves them to it.
In the meantime, I’m in the Mens, washing my hands, and in comes a young dad, also looking rushed and harassed, also with two kids in tow. But one is a girl. About 4 year old. The other is a boy about 2.
He looks quickly around, vainly hoping for the miracle of total emptiness, but does a sort of shrugging sheepish apology to us all and bustles the daughter into a cubicle and tells her to lock the door and have a wee but wait in there till he’s finished with her young brother.
They slip into a cubicle down the way, there’s much surreptitious clunking and mumbling and liquids streaming, and then a flush. They emerge and he sets about juggling the lad under the taps then heads for the hand-dryer.
Suddenly a 4 year old voice comes over the top of the door, but strident enough to stop traffic –
“Uh oh! – Da-ad! - IT’S A NUMBER TWO!!”
- and Dad’s chin slumps to his chest and his head shakes and he’s heard to mutter -
“Gee ... Zuz...”, and to my shame I find myself laughing as I beat a hasty retreat.
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