Dieting a la Duck

I am for the most part happy with my body. After many years of being a bit overweight, these days I have a just-about healthy BMI and I can run and climb stairs without killing myself. From time to time I do regain a few pounds though (*cough* three stone during pregnancy *cough*), which makes me wince a bit when I look in the mirror, "shrinks" my clothes ("Did you put these trousers in the tumble dryer Drake? Seriously, did you?!"), makes running harder, messes up my cycle (stupid PCOS) and gives me inexplicable backache. I just don't feel good, so despite my feminist pretentions, I feel compelled to diet.

I like food. A lot. I do not like dieting. At all. My diets therefore go like this:

Thursday: RIGHT! Let's do this! One slice of toast for breakfast! Salad for lunch. Some seeds to keep my blood sugar balanced. Ooh, Sarah brought cakes in! It would be rude not to... Just one then. Oh. I've had three. How did that happen? Dinner can be something light. Except we only have a four cheese pizza... OK, I'll start again tomorrow.

Friday (7pm): Oh crap, I was supposed to be on a diet wasn't I? Tomorrow!

Saturday: We have people over. Diets don't work when you're cooking for others. Tomorrow.

Sunday: Why am I worrying? I'm not that overweight. I'm letting womankind down by even thinking about it. I should just make peace with my curves and get on with life.

Monday (7.30am): Argh! Can't get my work skirt on! How is this the only thing that's clean??? DEFINITELY dieting tomorrow!

Tuesday (11pm): Jesus, what a day. Hey, I didn't get time to eat much though!

Wednesday (11pm): Jesus, what a day. Surely that makes that entire packet of custard creams justified? Seriously, tomorrow is the day!

Thursday: RIGHT! Let's do this! Etc. Etc.

It feels so clichéd to admit I diet, and even more clichéd to admit I'm completely crap at it, but losing weight IS difficult. For the past three years I have either been pregnant or breastfeeding so I have been able to get away with eating a good few hundred calories more every day than I can now I've stopped being "milked". My appetite has definitely reduced, but eating is as much about habit as hunger and habits are hard to kick. I have to remember not to buy popcorn or nuts with my lunch (or eat Duckling's leftovers) and stop myself from having a slice of toast before bed. That's enough to keep my weight stable, but more has to go to actively lose it, and that's a considerable shock to the system. My brain seems to bypass the knowledge that I'm on a diet every time I'm faced with food. The "not necessary!" voice is replaced with one that says, "go ahead! It'll be fine. You can go for a run later!". Which of course I never do. All the while the narratives of "You need to be thin to be accepted" and "You need to be thin to be healthy and avoid burdening the NHS" and "You shouldn't need to be thin to be anything. Just be you." are circulating my head. They all have their truths, but also their dark sides, particularly when taken to extremes.

So I munch on, gaining a pound, losing a pound, and being generally irritated that society, body and ethos have me so conflicted. This is probably why I only ever actually lose weight when ill or stressed. Flu is definitely not the best way to get thin but at least it takes the decision to diet out of my hands. Just not a week before our holiday please - I'll take snot-free over "beach-ready body" any day.

Referendum fun for everyone: what else should the UK hold a vote on?

In just over a week, the UK is either going to make the monumental decision to leave the European Union, or the rather less dramatic choice to stay. The long term implications of leaving are, to be honest, largely unknown and I don't personally believe anyone who makes any grand predictions about what might happen either way - the variables and unforseen 'black swans' are simply too complex to calculate with any certainty. But, on balance, as much as I hate the prospect of TTIP,  I think we have to stay for economic (in the short term we will probably be worse off if we don't), ideological (I am not inherently suspicious of foreigners) and personal (my Dad is a Dutch passport holder) reasons. However it's dressed up, the campaign for leaving is fundamentally grounded in prejudice and insularity, and no good can come from that.

But this is not what this post is about. This post is about all the other things you wish the government would hold a referendum on. All the things of critical national significance that say "Britain!", about which we don't really get any choice. Here are mine, in reverse order of frivolity:

Age of starting school. This is a personal bugbear of mine having a nursery-nurse mother who worked in a reception class and observed the behaviour of her charges for many, many years. Please could we stop pushing our children into formal literacy and numeracy education at 4 years old?  Some kids thrive, but many, particularly boys, and summer-born kids, really don't.  Britain has one of the youngest formal school starting ages in the world, despite overwhelming evidence that at best, it confers no advantages, and at worst, it's actively damaging.  We are doing our kids no favours whatsoever by trying to get them to sit still and learn their ABCs when they should be running about and digging holes and making mud pies.  Let's vote to raise the age to six - or even better, seven.

The voting system.  Oh wait, we already had a referendum on that, it didn't actually give a viable alternative and nothing changed.  Is it naïve to hope that we might get to move to proportional representation in my lifetime?

The Monarchy. Should we keep our lovely old queen and her faux pas prone hubby, or should we pack them off to a nice retirement village somewhere in Buckinghamshire and elect a shiny new President instead? Prince Charles and his meddling homeopathy-promoting ways aside, I personally have no real issue with the monarchy and I'm oddly fond of Her Maj because she looks a bit like my dear departed Nanna. They do cost a bit though (between £40m and £334m according to this article) so I would be intrigued to hear their "remain" campaign.  "One offers excellent value for money by single handedly sustaining the luminescent British hat and handbag industry.  Also, someone has to wear all the crowns around here." 

The Name.  I live in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (the 'United Kingdom' or 'the UK').  However, it is also known as Great Britain, Britain or 'GB' for short, even though these terms technically exclude Northern Ireland.  Furthermore, I live in the British Isles, which includes Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland.  And in England, which doesn't include any country except, well, England.  So I am British.  But also English. But not a UKer. Or British Isleian.  Oh no no.  Our official name is cumbersome, the abbreviations are nondescript and the way we describe our countr(ies) is deeply confusing for UK nationals and foreigners alike.  I say we should hold a referendum on whether to simplify things.   Yes = Keep all of the above.  No = change our name to the Queensdom of Britain, or QB for short.  Snappy, feminist, and patriotic.  Though it might be rather short lived if the referendum above votes to kick out the royals.  Republic of Britain (ROB) anyone?

The House of Commons debating style.  Simple question: should MPs continue to debate like puerile public schoolboys?  Yes / No?

National Dress.  As many people like to point out, the UK does not really have a national costume.  Sorry, let me revise that: England does not have a national costume (the Scots having kilts, the Northern Irish twiddly Celtic attire and the Welsh those odd black hats).  My former (English) boss used to get a lot of invites to foreign embassy receptions instructing her to wear "Formal Wear or National Dress".  We always puzzled over this.  Would she go Beefeater or Grenadier Guard?  Morris Dancer or Inebriated "Slapper" Inappropriately Attired for January?  She was in her 50s, so we sadly always played it safe and went for formal evening wear.  A small part of me is very sad I never got to see her in a bearskin hat or jingly bell-bedecked pantaloons, though I am very glad we avoided any form of boob tube.  In the wryly observed "International Day" episode of Peppa Pig ("America, Russia, Spain and Greece won't share the sandpit!"), Freddy Fox dresses as a blue helmeted policeman to represent Great Britain (the UK, England etc, etc.).  Which is fine, but like Beefeater and Grenadier Guard, that's a uniform, not national dress.  SO, I think a bunch of British designers should be set the challenge of designing England a national costume (unisex for true comedy value equality), and then we hold a referendum to vote for the best one.  I'd be campaigning for Vivian Westwood.

The winner of the Great British Bake Off final.  OK, I think I have almost certainly strayed from my "issues of critical national significance" remit.  Or maybe this is actually the most important one on the list?  Either way, let's stop. 

Any other suggestions?

Breastfeeding: how to stop (badly)

Duckling is now 27 months old (2 years and 3 months in less confusing terms). When he was seventeen months, I wrote a big long spiel about my trepidation towards stopping breastfeeding. Ten months on, we have finally given up. Or at least I have. Duckling hasn't quite grasped the "no more boobie" concept, and remains frustratingly keen on poinging one out and snaffling a slurp when I'm distracted or asleep.  He's remarkably sneaky and impressively dexterous, so essentially, he's still managing to get in 3-4 micro feeds every day, however much I tell him NO.

Anyway, it struck me that all the guides and fold out leaflets I've read from the NHS, NCT and the like, tell you how to start breastfeeding (nose to nipple ladies!), but NONE tell you how the hell to stop.  Which is probably why I've been so rubbish at it.  It's as though they don't wish to even mention stopping as a possibility, in case you decide to quit before that hallowed six-month mark (shock horror).  So, here is a not-very-scientific (due to the sample size of 'me') guide to withdrawing your melons from a reluctant toddler:

Go slow, don't set deadlines and don't force it unless you have no choice.  Some people have to give up suddenly for medical (or similar) reasons.  If that happens, it's crap but it is what it is and you do what you have to.  Where you have a choice though, it's always better to go slow, if just to avoid hideous mastitis.  Every child is different, and will have a different style of feeding and a different level of attachment to the breast. Some may drop it fairly quickly.  I know plenty of people who say "one day (s)he just wasn't interested any more". If that happens to you, then SUPER (unless of course you're not ready yourself).  We did not fall into this category.  At all.  As noted above, even though we have "officially" given up, Duckling's interest has not gone away. While I was cutting down (which has taken months), every feed dropped was bitterly contested and the slightest hint of giving up entirely was met with a total melt down.  So I've had to be patient.  Very, very patient.  Not just because I didn't want to put Duckling through unnecessary trauma (boobie was his world), but also because I knew I didn't have the resilience to cope with all the tears and tantrums and added sleep deprivation that would go with stopping cold turkey.  Breastfeeding was only really mildly irritating me, rather than all out ruining my life, and it also came with upsides (like five minutes peace, extra calorie burn and a happy toddler) so I eventually stopped making grand sweeping statements about "giving up by the time we went on holiday" etc. and just accepted it would take as long as it would take.

Be prepared to work at it.  Giving up when you have a boob monster will not just happen overnight.  You have to work at it and be braced to take two steps forward and one step back.  A lot. You also have to have considerable will power, which I am NOT blessed with.  I'm just too lazy I think.  In all honesty, if I hadn't given myself a good talking to and started saying 'no' (even when he was ill - which he is constantly), Duckling would still be feeding 10 times a day and most of the night, because it was almost always easier to just let him get on with it.  Easy in the short term does not equate to easy in the long term though, so as much as I say 'don't force it', you can't expect the "one day, I just knew (s)he was ready" moment to happen if you haven't put some groundwork in first.  It probably won't until they're at school (or then again it might - but there are no guarantees).

Use a reward approach, but don't expect it to be a magic solution.  I only finally achieved the current cessation(ish) after my first night away from Duckling.  I just instinctively felt he was going to be fine, and indeed, he was more than happy staying with Drake, and saw it as a bit of an adventure.  I realised it was now or never, so I told Duckling because he'd managed so well without boobie for his night with Daddy, I was confident he was old enough to stop altogether.  If he went whole week without it, he could have a little present.  This has led to a daily conversation at 5am (the last feed we dropped - when he comes into bed with us) that goes like this:

Duckling: I eat boobie now Mummy?*
Me: No.
Duckling; Oh. I love boobie
Me: I know darling, but you're a big boy now and you don't have boobie any more do you?
Duckling: I a big boy!  I have present now Mummy?
Me: Not yet Duckling. On Friday, when you've done a whole week of no boobie.
Duckling: Oh. Hmm. Excuse me Mummy, I eat boobie now actually please?
Me: NO Duckling! Go to back to sleep!
Duckling: Waaaaahhhhh!" (cue tears and vigorous - thwarted - breast extraction attempts.)

This conversation (or just the wailing) is repeated ad nauseum until around 6.30 am when I get fed up and go and make us toast.  I am a bit sleep deprived.  But I've not given in yet!

*Yes, I know this sounds a bit wrong, but no amount of "Actually, we say "Could I have some milk please Mummy?"" training seems to have had any impact.

Use humour.  Making the 'no boobie' thing a bit of a game seemed to work quite well with Duckling.  We played "hide the nipple" when he got grabby, and I distracted him with tickles endlessly.  It wasn't always successful - especially when I was not in a humorous mood - but it kept me from shouting at him all the time.

Try to ignore the "give up now" gang.  Also known as the "put yourself first for a change" or "He'll be fine!" crowd (or the more close-minded "Eww, breastfeeding a toddler is WEIRD! Bitty!  Bitty!" camp).  The WHO recommends breastfeeding until two or older (yay!  I've got my WHO breastfeeder's badge!) and the global average for giving up is about three, so worldwide norms are on your side, even if the post-six months breastfeeding rate in the UK is ridiculously low - probably because of all the pressure from the give up gang.  Only you will know when the time is right, so don't let anyone try to convince you otherwise, even if you know they have your best interests at heart (*ahem* mum and *ahem* husband).  You will just end up regretful and resentful, and it will make stopping infinitely harder too.

On the flipside, ignore the ardent "keep going" advocates.   If you have a good, healthy breastfeeding relationship with your child that isn't negatively affecting you, then it's all fine and lovely to keep going into your baby's second/third/forth year, or even beyond.  Lots of Mums do - hippy shakers and 9-5 money earners alike.   If the relationship has become about toddler power struggles, you're suffering indecent exposure in public places, or it's affecting your fertility or your mental / physical health  (I ticked all these boxes), then it's completely acceptable to stop however.  You may consider yourself a progressive, evidence based, 'keep it natural' Mum who puts her child's welfare first, but that doesn't mean you are obliged to go to breastfeeding extremes just to prove it.  Be pragmatic, not idealistic.

Be prepared for withdrawal to mess with your hormones, particularly if you stop suddenly. For me, dropping night feeds (the most significant ones to go) was enough to trigger a wide and colourful variety of "hormonal" symptoms including:

• Some manner of irritable bowel syndrome / lactose intolerance
• Nausea
• Exhaustion
• Random bouts of anxiety / depression / irritability
• An odd bitter taste in my mouth
• Itchy stretch marks
• Small red itchy lumps on my hands (precursors to chilblains according to my chilblain-prone sister)
• Hot flashes and low grade fevers.

I am still suffering now, though thankfully far less than I was.  This could of course all be entirely coincidental, but given that the symptoms began a few days after Duckling started consistently sleeping through until 4am and a couple of weeks before my first period in nearly three years (if that's not a sign of hormonal shift, I don't know what is), I suspect it's not.

_______

So that's it.  In summary, go slow, keep at it, ignore everyone else and DON'T STRESS ABOUT IT.  You will stop when you stop, and before you know it, breastfeeding will be a distant - and hopefully happy - memory.  I just wish I'd had this guide back in August...

Living with a frequent flyer

Drake spends much of his time flying back and forth to various European destinations.  Last year, it was Munich and Zurich; this year mostly Munich (though the trips have been a less frequent).  He tends to fly with a range of airlines, and is part of a loyalty scheme for all of them.  This means he has bucket loads of air miles, which came in very handy when we flew to Finland.  It also means he has "status" with some airlines - British Airways being the most coveted.  However, due to flying Lufthansa a lot this year, he was at risk of losing his Silver status with BA and all the lounge access, priority boarding and other perks that come with it. I know, I know, serious first world problem*. Nevertheless, this weekend, he did a slightly bonkers overnighter to Dusseldorf (one of the few European destinations with an airport-based Sheraton hotel, with whom he also has status) to earn himself enough points to retain his pretty Silver membership card.  So that's home, airport, plane, airport, hotel, gym, dinner, sleep, breakfast, airport, breakfast, plane, breakfast, home, breakfast.  All in under 16 hours.

I understood why he did it.  When you fly for work every week, it's decidedly less unpleasant if you get to eat little bowls of free nuts in the lounge, and don't have to wait for 25 minutes at check in or in the queue to board.  And he got an uninterrupted night's sleep and four breakfasts out of it.  But I still rolled my eyes and had a little bit of a "Do you HAVE to???" moment.  He missed the end of my Mum's family gathering to go to the airport for a start (it's possible he may have seen that as an additional benefit), he missed spending precious weekend time with me and Duckling, and he flew, on an aeroplane, just a couple of days after yet another one had ditched itself into the sea, killing all the passengers.

I have no fear of flying myself. I have a good grasp of probability and I deal with risk on a daily basis in my job.  I know that Drake is far more likely to be killed in a car accident on the way to or from the airport than he is in a plane crash. Yet still, I have to actively avoid thinking about what could happen each time he gets on a plane, or I break out in a cold sweat. It's not just the thought that he could die, it's HOW he would die. Asphyxiated, drowned, burned or frozen to death, or shattered by the impact of hitting the ground / sea. In all of these scenarios there is TIME. Time to realise what is happening,  time to think, if only for a few moments, "That's it, I'm dead. I'm never going to see my family again and they're never going to see me." Time to be utterly and completely terrified. Although knowing the ever-practical Drake, his last thoughts are likely to be "hmm, I hope Duck knows where to find my life insurance papers. Oh wait, she does all the filing. That's OK then."

There would be no-one to help, no emergency services to call, no chance of survival and in all likelihood, no hope of his body being returned. Seeing the photos of the debris from flight MS804 makes my blood run cold. To know that there are family members out there, looking at those pictures too, maybe identifying their loved one's personal effects, knowing their owner is never coming home... One couple were returning to see their three young children in Egypt after a month apart. The woman had just undergone lifesaving cancer surgery in France and looked set to make a full recovery.  It's too ironically tragic to contemplate.

So yes, I was not best pleased by Drake's decision to voluntarily fly to Germany this weekend.  I didn't tell him the full reason why - he would've just laughed at my apparent irrationality - but I did intimate I'd rather he didn't do it again anytime soon. Then I wished him a safe flight (again, he doesn't know but I superstitiously HAVE to wish him a safe flight, even if it's by text because I'm still asleep when he leaves) and watched him drive away. He made it back safe and sound of course. I just wish the passengers of MS804 had too.

* Technically it should be "developed / high income country problem", as the expressions "first world", "second world" and "third world" are anachronistic since the fall of the Soviet Union. I suspect my quibbling over the term may be a bit of a #firstworldproblem in itself though.

Have you had a good holiday? (Finland: Part 3)

"Have you had a good holiday?" Drake asked, gazing out across our sprawling garden at the forested shorelines and tranquil bays of the Gulf of Finland (thank you Airbnb).

"Not bad at all," I replied, as I simultaneously picked up a discarded pasta twirl from the floor, and righted Duckling, who was back bending his way out his high chair for the third time in as many minutes.

I wasn't lying. It hasn't been a bad holiday, by any stretch of the imagination. Both of the houses we've stayed in, in Helsinki, and here, out in the sticks, have been utterly incredible. Both are owned by architects and are lived for most of the year, so they're fully kitted out with all the mod cons you need for day to day living (though the current one is still lacking a potato peeler godammit). The Finns we've talked to have been reserved yet friendly, and sweetly surprised that we've chosen their beautiful country for a holiday. Duckling has been behaving brilliantly, the food and drink have been plentiful and delicious and the friends we're with have cooked, cleaned and been very understanding of us having a kid in tow (once I'd got over my slight first day offence at being told that they couldn't hack the slow pace of wandering a city with a child, and would be spending the afternoon on their own. Blunt, but at least honest).

But I am TIRED. It is a cliché, but holidaying with small children is basically the same old shit in a different place. Nappies, mealtimes, bath times, bedtimes, constant negotiation of transitions and removal of dangerous objects, endless playing with cars and Duplo, tidying up the destruction... It all still has to happen. Except it has to happen in less familiar surroundings, with more hazards, where all you desperately want to do is sit in a lounger, have a nice chat with your friends and soak up the silence and the view. Not chase after your two year old who is trying to throw himself down the steps to the beach again. Or help himself to yet another fistful of complimentary chocolates. Or beat up the bathroom door with an ornate horsehead walking stick. Or poke breadsticks into the Bang and Olufsen speakers when you've categorically said, seventeen times, that this is NOT acceptable behaviour.

The hardest bit is the inability to say any of this, because you're on holiday in a beautiful place with lovely people and to say you're not relishing every single moment sounds so damn sour and ungrateful. There have of course been some totally great bits, both with Duckling ("ooh, wow! Noisy!" He exclaimed as I showed him how to pop seaweed) and our friends (who knew 34 and 11 months was not too old to learn the full dance sequence to "All the Single Ladies"?). I just feel the beauty and the luxury of this place is wasted on me - old, tired, frumpy, grumpy and perpetually distracted as I am.   It has not been relaxing in the sense I once knew, and it bothers me that I am still dismayed by this, two years into motherhood. If I'm not used to it by now, am I ever going to be?

Probably not, is the answer, but at least it will make our first holiday sans enfants that bit more enjoyable when it does eventually come around. Except I'm sure I'll probably miss my darling(s) massively, and mope the whole trip. I am a really difficult lady to please.

My name's Duck and I'm not an alcoholic (Finland: Part 2)

OK,  so I have an admission that I am fairly sure is going to alienate a large portion of my readership: I don’t really drink much alcohol.

In the UK, not boozing daily is seen as a bit, well, odd. It is a great shared cliché confession amongst most mothers that the the prospect of a large glass of wine is the only thing that keeps them going from Operation Get Up to Operation Bedtime. And I get that, I totally do. Friday night is beer night in our house, and it's great. But every night? It's just not my thing.

So this week, a holiday spent with - how shall I put this politely - some seasoned drinkers, has been a bit of a challenge. I do enjoy a glass of wine, and I can actually hold my drink reasonably well.  If I really wanted to I could keep up; at least for the first couple of hours.  But there are just so many reasons not to these days.

I have not drunk regularly since university so my consumption abilities are definitely a little less honed than they once were. This means I am guaranteed to feel rubbish the next day - hung over, a bit paranoid about having said something stupid and generally miserable - and it's a misery that can last a good 48 hours sometimes. No fun when on holiday and dealing with tantrums.

Then there's the knowledge that I am responsible for another small human. What would I do if he suddenly fell ill or got injured? What would I do if I injured him because I was a bit sloshed, as in this scenario from last night: Me: "what happened to his head?" Drake: "I was spinning him around and, err, I got dizzy!" Me: "nothing to do with the three G&Ts you've had then?" Drake: "of course not!"  I don't want to sound sanctimonious - it was only a very small bump and I had had a beer and a "Vodka berry nice" too (our own Finnish invention - Koskenkorva vodka, frozen lingonberries & Schweppes Russchian), but it serves to illustrate why I don't feel comfortable taking charge of a child while tipsy.

I also still breastfeed Duckling when he comes into bed with us at night. I need to be alert enough to hear him when he wakes up, and not so drunk that I end up smothering him / booting him out the bed. Plus I need to avoid inadvertently inebriating him via alcoholic breast milk (though evidence suggests you have to be fairly paralytic for that to be a  possibility). And I haven't even mentioned the abuse of my liver, the weight gain, and the additional grey pallor that a hangover brings to my already haggard visage...

Alcoholism and binge drinking are genuine problems in the UK, but are often overlooked in people of my age and social class because they happen behind closed doors, rather than on the vomit spattered streets of your local town centre.  I know plenty of people who will happily polish off a bottle of wine between two (or sometimes one) most nights, and think nothing of it, even though the NHS recommends drinking no more than 14 units per week (around six regular size glasses of wine - or one per night with a 'rest' day).  They do it because they like wine, obviously, but also because it's completely normalised in British culture - particularly middle class culture - to do so. This in turn fuels mockery and teasing of those who choose to abstain or drink a bit more modestly, which I find really tedious. On the first night of our holiday, I just had a couple of beers and A Big Thing was made of this. I know our friends just wanted me to relax and let my hair down (and stop making them feel like lushes no doubt) but I still felt uncomfortable.  So on night two, I abandoned my reserve and got through three glasses of Prosecco, two beers and two hefty gin and tonics, which for me is a lot. And it was entertaining (I was introduced to Cards Against Humanity for the first time and spent the evening with tears of laughter rolling down my face), but I certainly felt it in the morning. It's depressing that I am so susceptible to peer pressure at the age of 34, but I can't help it - I don't want to be the only sober one in the room. They'll have me sniffing glue and shoplifting next...

I'm not some kind of a temperance zealot.  I am on holiday, so I am happy (and want) to drink a bit more than I usually do. I just don't want to feel like I am obliged to drink more than I'm comfortable with every night. I am thus going for an obviously-drinking-just-quite-slowly approach for the rest of the week and will be reverting to my more sober ways once back home, sticking to tea like the good girl prissy knickers I am. Herbal I'm afraid, as unlike alcohol, I genuinely can't tolerate caffeine. My next attempt to alienate my readership - "My name's Duck and I'm not a tea drinker" - is in the pipeline.

Sometimes things do go right (Finland: Part 1)

Pleasant surprises with children tend to be fairly few and far between, but every so often they materialise like an oasis in a desert, and you think "Hey, you know what? I've got this parenting thing nailed! This is actually fun!"

Today, we took a three hour flight to Helsinki, with our 26 monther and two friends who don't have children (and don't want them). Not they most obvious scenario for fun, but it was. Because it actually went WELL. I know, I know, I was shocked too.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't 100% perfect. There was some "me run away!" action in the Duty Free, followed by the activation of an entire row of singing, dancing, instrument playing M&M figurines. And there was some short-lived insistence on pulling his Trunki himself, requiring a crowd of elderly Japanese ladies to play French skipping with the tow strap (thank God they were all on the ball and relatively spritely or it could have been broken hip central). But for the most part he was well behaved, very happy and very, very excited.

And this is the part that really made it fun - this was the first time we've been away somewhere with Duckling when he's been properly verbal, able to express how he's feeling and ask about what he's seeing. "Exciting Mummy!  Me go on aeroplane with Mummy and Daddy and Nick and Ella! To Sinland*!" he kept saying, usually followed by "we go on aeroplane NOW?".

On the flight he sat primly in his own seat with his little hands tightly gripping the arm rests (which we were NOT allowed to share) and feet jiggling about, repeating "We go now! We go up in aeroplane! We go fast! Neoooow!" And as requested, he stayed in his own seat until the seat belt sign had been switched off and he could clamber onto my lap to look at the tiny roads and trees and houses below. Then, most amazingly of all, he actually went to sleep on my lap and stayed that way for over an hour while I read a book. An actual book.  I had a dead arm for most of it.  But still, a book!

Landing went as well as take off with much "ooh-ing" over the bumpy touch down (we were earnestly instructed to hold onto his legs just in case he bounced out of his seat) and car hire, the drive to the (amazing) apartment and dinner at a random Korean noodle place all went smoothly too. Even bedtime was straight forward. It was weird.

In some respects, it's kind of a bit depressing that "not a total disaster" has become the new bar for "quite enjoyable." But I suppose that's just the nature of life with kids. You have to recalibrate your expectations if you're going to survive it in tact, and find your fun where you can. Fingers crossed the journey home defies expectations too. Though I fear they have now been set impossibly high...

*Sinland is Finland for reference,  though with the quantity of Finnish vodka we're planning to consume, Sinland may be quite apt.