On travelling with two small children

How I remember with a fond nostalgia boardering on an ache, how wonderfully easy life was when all I had to think about was myself (although even then, I often managed to screw things up). Going abroad was as complicated as checking you had a passport, credit card and housekeys before you left, and then hopping on the tube. Now it is a military operation requiring detailed planning; lists, food bags, sterile water, cots, (we'll come to that in a moment), cot matress, cot matress sheets, pushchairs, change bags, nappies, formula, wipes, papoose, backpack...and then clothes, hats, swimming costumes, towels etc etc. So, it wasn't without a small degree of stress that we managed to pack up the car (having dropped the dog off with a wonderful sitter) and set off for the airport.

Contrary to all the bad press EasyJet get, they are pretty good at helping families, letting you take two items per child without having to pay extra. So, on we loaded the cot, the pushchairs, the car seat, the children and ourselves and set off for Milan. I had the easy job of carrying Patrick, then 8 weeks and a snuggly little cuddly frog thing that they are at that stage. All he wanted to do was feed and sleep, wake up with the turbulence to vomit all over me and go back to sleep again. Hugo had the slightly more arduous task of carrying James (who now weighs about 12kg), completely over excited about being on an airplane (seeing them pass over his head every day at home has led to a special airplane song accompanied by a rather special dance where he jigs from foot to foot with his arms stretched out wobbling back and forth) and therefore completely hyperactive. By the time we got to Milan Malpensa, I was covered in sick and my boobs had been knawed to high heaven, and Hugo had lost the will to live. So it was extremely annoying to find that the car hire company that I, yes, all my fault, I had booked, was at the other terminal. This required a half hour wait for the bus in what felt like searing heat (it was probably only 25 degrees C but compared to Scotland, my word!), then a 5km drive with two now sobbing / whingeing / exhausted kids to Terminal 2, where we were dropped off opposite the terminal building and about 300m from the car hire car park. Mustering all our energy, we picked up and carried (no trolleys to be seen) 2 massive suitcases, two pushcairs holding two squirming children, a change bag, a travel cot and a rucksack. (Each large suitcase weighed over 20kg...). With a lot of huffing puffing effing and blinding we finally got to the car hire bit we'd booked through, only to find that they were the only ones without an office outside, and Hugo had to go back inside the terminal building to find someone to check in with. 45 minutes later, having fed Patrick whilst squatting under the shade thrown out by a parked van, distracting James from running off and being kidnapped / hit by a passing car / hitch hiking to Rome, Hugo arrived back, jubilant (he'd probably been in the Departures bar drinking Peroni come to think of it), carrying James's hired car seat. It took another 10 minutes to fit the bags in the car and the car seat which was a different make to the ones we're used to...and then I saw that the car seat was completely smashed up. The back was ok but the side panels which are made of polystyrene anyhow, were crumbled to bits, only held together by the material encasing it. I was FURIOUS. But it was now 6pm and the boys were in need of food and drink, milk and pyjamas. So, ranting and raving and asking how on EARTH Hugo hadn't noticed this (he said it was the best of the lot), we set off.

The next task was finding an 'Autogrill' which had an ATM (in the transferring about we hadn't risked one of us running off to find an ATM inside the airport, which was a bit silly) and which sold milk. It became apparent after the third autogrill that they don't have ATMs and milk is a bit hit and miss, but we got there in the end and soon the boys were in their cosy PJs and we were keeping the tears at bay with lots of Old MacDonald.

By the time we reached San Michele, on the Tigullian coast of Italy (Liguria), it was 9pm, the babies were asleep and we were shattered from the ridiculous motorway which bends and curves at impossible angles for most of the 2 hour drive. It was then, with the car unloaded and the children stirring, that I realised we were without a most precious item....James's travel cot. And with sinking heart I realised I'd left it on the opposite side of the path from the shaded area I'd been nursing Patrick in, and my ranting and raving about the bust car seat, I'd completely forgotten about it. So, James had his first night in a proper bed, and I, overtired and nerves stretched to breaking point, spent most of the night awake in a state of fear that James was going to fall out and break his teeth / neck / nose on the hard marble floor. He didn't.

After the relentless energy sucking experience of travelling, being on holiday in Italy was wonderful and James was certainly delighted beyond belief to be somewhere hot and sunny, with a beach, warm sea, eating with mum and dad, going on hikes, boats, busses and fairyground rides. He was dubbed 'Icecream James' each time he got his mitts on a gelato, as half an hour later he would be impossible to manage, deciding invariably that the direction we were going in didn't suit him and he'd walk off the other way, kicking and screaming if we tried holding his hands or putting him back in his pram. Patrick was less thrilled with being on holiday in Italy, overheating constantly and feeding every hour and a half at times, which resulted in me losing about 2kg in fluids (Great for the bikini diet) and developping a stye in my eye. Hugo and I somehow managed to give each other time to sleep and relax (I was spoilt rotten I must admit, I don't think I cooked one meal throughout the 12 days)and we even braved going out for supper with the kids in the pushchairs twice, where they behaved impeccably staying asleep and transferring back into their cots with no fuss(we replaced James's cot on the second day). We saw a fair bit of my dad and uncle and aunt who live there, and all in all it was a fab experience.

But, next year I think a Mark Warner holiday with full time childcare might be better.