Making the move to Orange County from Surrey sounded easy in theory: we’d fly direct, we’d upgrade to premium, we’d ship the dog, we’d rent an apartment on the beach and the sun would always shine. A piece of cake, right? Wrong. The mechanics are a lot more taxing than you think, the most difficult being an 11 hour flight with a hyper child who chooses not to understand the words ‘stop kicking that chair’ or ‘you have to have your seat belt on when we take off.’ I knew things were going to be difficult when my strong willed son marched up the cramped aisle clouting all in his path with his CBEEBIES backpack oblivious to the deflated looks of our surrounding fellow passengers when they realized we sitting next to them. I knew what they were thinking as pre-parenthood I would have thought exactly the same thing: ‘Bugger! A grizzly kid.’ My husband and I had made a pre-flight pact: whatever happens, we won’t take it out on each other. That was before Pringlegate occurred. For those of you who know my son JJ, you’ll be aware that (1) his diet is very limited (2) he is very fussy and (3) he is a force of nature that doesn’t stop screaming if he doesn’t get exactly what he wants on the food front. Hubby and me had been lulled into a false sense of security, as at six hours in JJ had been an angel. Pictures of weird clowns had been coloured, Toy Story had been watched for the third time, puzzle pieces had been slotted together before being cast underneath the seat never to be seen again and he’d gnawed at a crusty piece of bread and butter for a good hour. We got complacent. We allowed ourselves to switch off. But then the announcement came:
‘I need crisps!’ JJ said in his most truculent tone.
Oh no. The one thing I hadn’t stuffed into his bag.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said to hubby. ‘I’ll go get some.’ I scurried to the curtained area and asked if they had any.
‘No, sorry, but we have these,’ said the bouffant haired hostess as she held up the smallest bag of mixed pretzels and cheesy biscuits. My heart plummeted. I knew what was coming. I walked slowly back and held the packet in front of JJ. I could have counted him down.
‘THERE NOT CRISPS!’ he shouted before pausing, breathing and unleashing the most ear bending scream I’d ever heard him do. His best yet. Go JJ. I could almost hear the other passenger’s hearts banging such was the surprise of his attack.
‘Go buy some from duty free!’ shouted my husband as he fumbled around for some notes. Off I went again my shoulders to my ears, such was the level of my stress.
‘Pringles, please,’ I said thrusting the money at the same airhostess.
‘Oooh, sorry, we’ve sold out.’
Nooooooooo!! Please!!!! Don’t make me go back there without them!
‘Really, you have none? That’s my son screaming. Only crisps will do.’ I gave her my best Paddington Bear stare. Thankfully, she took pity on me and rang up to first class where she located the last tube of Salt Vinegar Pringles left on the entire plane. We were saved. I could feel the sighs of relief around me as I handed them across and took my chance to escape to the bathroom.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ I spat when I returned to my seat to find my husband chomping his way through the tube. ‘That’s the last one on the entire plane!’
‘And you didn’t think to tell me?’ We both knew then we were in trouble. As JJ scraped the last crumbs out of the silver bottomed packet and uttered the scariest word in the world ‘More?’ we knew the honeymoon was over. And boy was it.
His tiny legs pumped like pistons as he pummeled the chair in front writhing and screaming in his seat as his tiny world crumbled.
‘They were for JJ, not you!’ I bit as I scraped my son out of his chair and escaped to the back of the plane to try and calm him down. Bang went our pact along with any further chance of reading, writing or watching a good movie. Cut to five hours later one refusing-to-sleep child and two sweaty parents trudged off the plane vowing ‘never again’.
Even though it takes six weeks I may have to sail back to good ol’ Blighty.
