Small People V Sleep

 'When are you getting a baby?' my 6 year old niece asked recently. (I suspect she may be in training to be a nosey b@$t@rd…) But she's a little young to hear about the horrors of pregnancy, childbirth and child rearing, so I used a trusty 'I don’t know' in response. If it was as easy as getting a baby, from the shop, like you would a pint of milk or a nice new handbag, I might consider it, but I know too much. FAR too much. Thank you friends, family and far-too-intimate TV for sharing.

Don’t get me wrong. It's not that I don’t like small and miniature people, they can be great fun altogether when you know you can hand them back to their sleep-deprived parents at the end of the afternoon and skip off to the pub.

Therein lies the rub. I like children, but I like some other things more. These things include, but are not exclusive to, sleep, the occasional 5 minutes of quiet and TV that does not feature Barbie and/or Barney and/or 'bonkers' presenters (you know them - the 'I'm mad me!' types). And there are other things I do not need to experience directly to know I would not like one little bit. These things include, but are not exclusive to, cracked nipples, tearing (down there!) and projectile vomiting.   

'But it's all worth it!' they tell me, at the end of another story about getting covered in poo, with a smile that doesn't extend to their hollow, exhausted eyes. I'm not really sure if it's me they're trying to convince or themselves.

I know I risk sounding like a self-centred cow, but rest assured it's not purely selfish reasons that keep me from boarding the broody express; I am also thinking of the children. ('Will no-one think of the children?!' I cry…) Sleep deprivation and copious amounts of hormones would not a loving, nurturing ginger make.

Me + hormones - sleep = THIS.

 A womb, an egg and a few good swimmers may be all it takes to make a baby*, but it takes a hell of a lot more to make a mother (as the girls on 16 and pregnant so ably demonstrate).

*According to some of the nuns at my old school simply sitting on a boys lap is enough to get you 'in the family way'. Unless, of course, you place a telephone directory on said boy's lap first; if, for instance, you have to sit on his lap for a play or suchlike. Sound contraceptive advice from the Catholic Church there. And there are more pearls of wisdom where that came from... Ladies please take note - this is important - you should exercise extreme caution when wearing patent shoes with a skirt. Boys can and will see your knickers in the shine. You have been warned.

Sage advice AND stylish head wear. Is there no end to their talents?

Your pants appear to be smouldering...

When was the last time you told a lie? It was about five minutes ago, wasn’t it?

Hopefully it was a little white ‘the bus was late’ type fib and not ‘I did not have sexual relations with that woman’ style barefaced deceit. Don’t feel too bad; we’re all lying our arses off all the time (Although if you did have sexual relations with that woman, you should feel bad, very bad indeed, ya cheating fecker!)

Fraud starts when we’re tiny, when we’re mostly the victims of lies, or lyees if you will. I blame the parents. They will tell their children anything for an easier life, ranging from the innocent (carrots give you x-ray vision), to the ominous (that’s not an ice-cream van, it’s the child-catcher). But, giving parental types the benefit of the doubt, most of their little inaccuracies aim to protect or entertain. Siblings on the other hand… the lies they tell are intended only to upset, torture and mentally scar.

My brother is a rather good liar. They say it’s all in the detail, and he has an active (and sometimes disturbing) imagination. One of my earliest memories is of him telling me I was the only person in the world without a willy, because my mother had dropped me on a chainsaw when I was a baby. I believed this for what must have been several weeks or months (I felt quite special god love me) and his ruse was only rumbled when I casually asked my mother about her willy one day.

Slightly more traumatic was him telling our small nephew that Bosco was dead. Run over by a truck while out riding his Harley Davidson apparently. Oh the tears!

[For the non-paddies amongst you, Bosco was a squeaky-voiced, woolly-haired hand puppet beloved by generations of Irish children].

RIP

The old ‘you’re adopted’ is quite a common one, so it wasn’t good enough for my loving, caring, nurturing siblings. As I’m the only ginger in the family, they told me I came from the knackers. The story goes (note the present tense) that the family were out for a drive one day, passed a halting site and a baby (me) came flying through the window. So they kept me, and I am still known affectionately by my gypsy name at home. And what I said earlier about parents generally lying for the benefit of their child? Well they also do it for their own amusement. My parents were, and are, only too happy to verify this story. In fact I think they might have started it…

But it’s all good character-building stuff I tell myself (and maybe some day, a psychiatrist). Excuse me while I go and rock in the corner for a while… Only joking! Those driveways aren’t going to tarmac themselves.

Come fly with me

I do love the views...

As I prepare to board the big orange bus of the skies later today (brace yourself Amsterdam) I’m reminded of the fellow fliers I’ve known and loved / held in contempt / been utterly disgusted by. I’ve done a fair few air miles (my carbon footprint could probably stomp out a small country) so I’ve had the dubious pleasure of sharing an airplane with all manner of specimen.

But it doesn’t take a frequent flier to predict that a budget airline flight to Amsterdam on a Friday night will be approximately 68% full of drunken lairy stag/hen types. What I enjoy, though, is seeing the same groups on the return flight – a green, shaky, shell of their former selves. Because I am so very sensible when it comes to booze you see…*ahem*

Speaking of drink, I do love the opportunity a flight gives you to be a bad influence on complete strangers. There have been several occasions when my elbow rest buddy has declined a drink with a smug holier-than-thou my-body’s-a-temple expression, which is quickly wiped off their face when the refreshing grapey beverage I’ve ordered is passed under their nose. Before you can say ‘cirrhosis’ they’re all ‘actually could I have a wine too…’

Predictably, children can be a bloomin’ nightmare – the worst being when they hunt in packs. Beware the school trip on a plane! Excitement and massive bags of haribo are an explosive combination, and particularly annoying when you’re trying to catch up zzzs on the stupid o’clock flight.

One of the minor 'joys' of low-end airlines (have to eek it out where I can…) is choosing my own seat. Honing my observation skills has helped avoid all manner of seating disasters. I have, on occasion, felt sorry for ladies with babies for this reason though, as passenger after passenger swerves to avoid their row when the mini person is spotted, making them feel like such a pariah that they give you a pre-emptory apologetic look if you’re the one stuck with the infant-adjacent seat. These can actually be fun if you’re lucky enough to get the cute smiley variety, but sadly there are no guarantees they won’t be (or turn into) the screechy tantrum types.

Screaming babies have nothing, however, on the guy who spent an entire flight to Bristol making a guttural burp/hacking sound so loud I could hear it over the engines from two rows back <retch>. It took me a while to figure where the noise was coming from (and, indeed, what it was) but then I noticed the poor misfortune sitting in the same row as him hanging out into the aisle to get as far away from him as possible. Ewwww.

And so I say a little prayer to Stelios, the god of cheap air travel, that I avoid a pissed / loud / smelly neighbour on this upcoming flight. In return, I shall make a small offering at his altar in the form of in-flight bar profits.