Going on holiday used to be simple. You book it all up, forget about it for a while, then the day before you leave you think about the packing. Once we've had the argument about whether I need 12 pairs of jeans for a trip to Rhodes but haven't packed any shorts then everything is slung in a case or two and off we go. However now we're travelling with a four month old we've had more logistical planning meetings then they had for the entire Gulf War. Both of them. Yet yesterday we still found ourselves arguing over whether or not I had correctly worked out my trouser requirements.
Thankfully everything is seemingly in order and we're almost ready to embark on what should be a great holiday but is currently over-shadowed by the looming spectre of a 12 hour flight with a baby. I know we're not the first people to fly with a baby and that these days it's fairly routine, and by the time I was his age we had emigrated to the States, but still it's a daunting prospect. Mind you it could be worse, just think of the poor buggers in the seats behind us.
