Sleep routine, schmeep routine. Come sleep by me today, little pyjama boy. You smell nice.
Of course this may come back to haunt me next week when we’re in a confined space and eating suspicious freeze-dried potato casserole for eight hours. Babies on a plane. Samuel L. Jackson never solved that little conundrum, did he? My imaginings of this scenario go like this, in order of optimism:
1. Henry is MEGA EXCITED about being in close proximity with so many people, bounces on Daddy’s lap for a few hours, tips over my tray of potato casserole in his exuberance, and then falls asleep.
2. Henry is BORED and sets up a low-level whining that continues for several hours. He throws Sir Prance-a-Lot at the air stewardess in temper, who then refuses to bring us any more drinks and peanuts.
3. Henry is VOMITY. There is only a finite number of muslins we can fit into one carry-on. We run out, and he makes a decent start on our clothes.
4. Henry has INHERITED MY EAR CANALS. Screamageddon occurs in all its awful fury during ascent, descent and many points in between.
Still, at the other end of this terribly unknown quantity is New York, New York, and good heavens do we want to be a part of it, etc. What do you do in New York city, my good people? Let me know, because we should probably have plans that don’t revolve entirely around hunting down food and running riot in FAO Schwarz.
And after that comes ten days with my lovely mother! This will be the March to end all Marches. And five aeroplanes later, we will come home and never move again.
Mr Jackson! There’s still time to weigh in with your opinion. Help a lady out.