As we board our aircraft for a four and a half hour flight I realise that there’s no inflight entertainment system.
The sudden realisation that I will have to keep my son occupied with nothing more than a colouring book and a Winnie-The-Pooh stuffed toy hits me with the weight of an iPad full of Peppa Pig episodes – the one I had neglected to bring.
I hope and pray that this is not an omen for the rest of our trip.
William, on the plane telling every other passenger that we're headed to NZ. Like they didn't already know.
Image supplied.
As it happens, he handles things remarkably well and delights in telling basically the entire plane that we’re going to New Zealand, you know, just in case they hadn’t checked their tickets at the gate.
I’d not previously attempted a lot of family travel, limiting things to the odd road trip to visit relatives. Mostly the idea terrifies me; being away from all our stuff- the stuff that keeps my kids entertained- the idea of hauling mountains of luggage around, finding stuff to do that they I will enjoy as much as they will. I love the idea of doing kid stuff with my kids, but only the idea. I’m not so much into the participation in the kid stuff when push comes to shove.
But there I was, headed to Auckland in the company of a four and a half year old to go on a family tour in the middle of school holidays.