Traveling with a baby: Holiday Anecdotes

Sobering news

Warned of sore ears, temper tantrums, tutting passengers and poonami’s akin to the Thai disaster of 2004 we were ready for anything. What we were not prepared for was BA running out of booze 7 hours into the flight. No sooner had I settled the wee-one down for bed-time (or in this instance big-baby-squeezed-into-insy-bassinet-time) did the air hostess come tottering over to inform me that ‘they’ (she made it sound like we were traveling with Pete Doherty and Kate Moss both entourages in tow) had drunk the plane dry! A quick glance around confirmed we were not traveling alongside madass A-list rock stars but in-fact a bunch of seemingly ‘normal’, largely middle-aged, middle-class, mums (and dad’s) settling in for the last leg of the journey. Not only was the plane half-empty I would guesstimate 50% were under the age of 10 let-alone old enough to drink. So BA, if you’re reading, sort it fucking out!

Enjoy your trip?

Unsurprisingly Zig hasn’t been drifting off into an easy slumber every 2 or so hours; he doesn’t at home so he sure as shit ain’t on a windy beach under the blinding sun. Instead, we take it in turns to whisk him off into the shade tenderly rocking him before carefully placing him back in his seat under an umbrella. Will has the ‘magic-touch’ and so off he went, son in arms, to cast his spell. Watching them slowly wander out of eye-shot I got back to my audiobook and mojito; bliss. Mere moments later I hear the familiar shrill of my babies cry! Ripping my earplugs out I glance up to see Will, surrounded by hotel staff, ushering me over. Instinct kicks in and I begin hurtling towards them, eager to see what’s happened to my baby! Tearing around a corner at greyhound speed my foot hits an unseen step, tripping me up whilst similtaniously propelling me into the air, I land on the sandy floor; face first. It soon becomes apparent Ziggy’s fine, just a nasty shock from Will falling in the same arse-over-tit way I did. Still, my snotty sobs join his and there we stand, the human sandfamily, none of that ‘stiff upper lip’ here.

More NARCO than Nacho

It’s always the nights you least expect that turn out to be utter gems. Take last night for instance, after a day on the beach soaking up the Mexican sun we opted for a quick shower before heading out for local tapas and an early night. Ziggy was winging so, no time for makeup, I ran a comb through my wet hair, slopped on a comfy short/t-shirt combo (PJ’s) before bundling him into the buggy in an attempt to settle him before our food arrived. Approaching the restaurant, a tiny box on a quiet street it only has 8 tables, 3 of which are out on the pavement. We plonk ourselves right on the corner, Ziggy in the shadows, slowly drifting off. The local’s next to us, two older men and a daughter, are knocking back the tequila’s having a jolly old time. Our own drinks arrive and it’s then we spot a mariachi band, the restaurant’s owner ushering them to the table next to ours. In unison the music starts; guitars, accordion, trumpet and the voices of four men blaring out. Shocked out of his calm the joyful tune is soon joined by the traumatised shrill of Ziggy’s cry! Slightly embarrassed I whip him out, standing on the pavement, babe in arms, we begin bopping along to the traditional tunes only to stop for a decent slurp of my caipiroska. By this point the entire restaurant is on their feet, dancing in the street; the daughter (5 tequila’s in) is up on the table, old codgers attempting to feel-up some young German tourists.

It’s then the plot thickens. Turning around I notice a man overlooking the scene, a bodyguard, watching-out, eyes darting from passer-by to car and back again. HOLY FUCKING SHIT! Pinching Will I whisper-shout my discovery, ‘they’re mafia! Cartel Don’s, that’s not their daughter but a girlfriend, local gangsters!’ no wonder the waitresses are all smiles as their tight-short bottoms are openly squeezed by these two men punching 50.

Leaving the party in full swing we muse over a past life, pre-Ziggy, where we too would’ve mounted the table, accepting drinks from suspected drug Lords.



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