We're all going on a summer holiday

This year’s family holiday was booked with ease in mind.  No nine hour flights or debilitating heat, just a quick and easy flight from the local airport and a forty minute drive at the other end.  Hubby had taken charge of all the instructions for the apartment and local area as in my heavily pregnant state I can barely be trusted to remember the children.  He was meeting me at his parent’s house the night before.  Having arrived early and eaten with the in laws I settled down for a spot of Sunday night TV.  My mother in law (MiL) kindly offered to settle the girls after they kept reappearing so it was me and my father in law to watch ‘The White Queen’.  Cue most awkward moment of 2013 yet as two very naked peeps embarked on a post watershed romp.  I tried staying, as I am an adult, but eventually could bare it no longer, quickly made my excuses and left the room. 

The following morning I am met by a smirking mother in law, I assume she is laughing at my previous night’s embarrassment, not so.  Angel, who has been up since the crack of dawn has been telling her that mummy and daddy wrestle, naked, cue mortifying enactment of mummy’s weird lying down dance from Angel and much snorting and laughing from MiL.

Our taxi eventually rattles up the drive and we pop our luggage in the back, we are on our way.  Hubby seems relaxed so I let my shoulders drop a little too.  This doesn’t last long, my phone beeps, it is MiL “be prepared you have forgotten pillow and Mr Giraffe!” my only reply “shit”.  These are Angel and Delights comforters; they go everywhere, although apparently not on holiday.  I break the news to the children who take it quite well considering.

Once at the airport we don’t need to hang about long as our flight is about to board, we make our way to the tarmac where I am met by none other than the pilot who I noticed has flung himself down the steps two at a time to prevent the massive pregnant lady from boarding his flight.  “May I just ask how many weeks you are?” I tell him that I am only 27 weeks and yes I look big, hubby thinks I don’t notice the raised eyebrow exchange between him and the pilot.

The rest of the journey is uneventful, the air stewardess scowls at me as I force her to push her trolley back up the aisle so I can get to the loo, I smile sweetly back at her.  When we arrive at Malaga airport and pick up the hire car Delight informs us that she is not a boy and will not sit in the blue car seat they have given us.   Hubby wins, Delight sulks.   This becomes a daily battle until the last day when she announces that blue is her new favourite colour.

The holiday is a roaring success, we take the girls out to eat late each night so they will sleep until later, which miraculously they do.  Then  one night as I get ready for dinner, standing in front of the mirror in all my glory I say to hubby ”you know I have suddenly ballooned during this pregnancy” .    “There is no suddenly about it darling” comes his reply,  I look up, mouth agog and see it again, that familiar eyebrow wiggle that he had given the pilot.  Hubby's eyebrows clearly have an issue with my pregnancy weight!

 

After an all too quick week away, and feeling much more relaxed, family P head home.  As we board the plane I suddenly have the feeling that we are missing something.  In a home alone panic I do a head count, children and hubby all accounted for, “where is Delight’s trunkie?” I suddenly blurt out.  Hubby, who doesn’t mince his words simply says “F** it, it’s gone”.  Having done a very quick packing calculation he has realised that he has all his lovely clothes safely in the main luggage and none of his items are now “lost“,  I on the other hand have a quick flash back to check in where a sudden requirement for redistribution of weight led me to put some of my clothes and one, yes just one, of my fave nude peep toe wedgies in said trunkie.  Hubby, unimpressed, quickly jogs back though the airport all to no avail.  I am now on a plane with two upset children; their dollies were inside the lost trunkie, one hot, bothered and sweating hubby and I, bereft at the thought of leaving behind my favourite shoe sit quietly and plan the rest of my outfits around my only pair of flip flops.

 

Once back in the UK and finally home I ring the airport and am told in broken English to ‘send courier’.  Hubby’s eyebrows are now in danger of jumping off his face and I look to Angel who has been scribbling on the blackboard an assortment of letters, “what does it say mummy?” at this stage I’m not sure if she is innocent or not but the sentiment rings true as I read in big curly scrawl the letters  - pis.