Flights of fancy.

We're on our way. I'm writing this on the plane while the children sleep like jet-setting cherubs. It hasn't been perfect but they've been great despite pooey pants (Iris in Wellington airport before check-in) and a bit of vomiting (Hazel just after take off for LA). You needn't worry about their health again just yet though; diligent readers of this blog will have noticed that Iris pooing is just par for the course at the moment, and Sean thinks the litre of cold water I let Hazel drink during take off (because she was very worried about getting sore ears) caused the vomit. That and his very fair mind must be why it's my jacket in the plastic bag waiting to find a laundromat and not his, I dunno, I was off "not you help!"-ing Iris with the toilet. Besides unplanned excretion and regurgitation they've been good. Not much fighting, perfectly happy with watching TV on the plane for hours, to the point that Hazel demanded a book instead "I don't want to just watch TV all night!" and then sleeping beautifully and giving Sean and me time for light-hearted chit chat.

Each of us has been in an aeroplane toilet with a child this trip and we've independently noticed that, although our kids are really small humans, it's still quite difficult to manage things like cleaning up vomit or tooth-brushing with two people in there. A quick thought experiment suggests the Mile High Club is mainly made up of compact people and yogic contortionists. Possibly more yogic contortionists, because they have the mind control to ignore the possibility that their spacious and idyllic honeymoon cottage might have been previously inhabited by vomity or pooey children.

Then again, perhaps it is made up only of flights of fancy.