Jet Lag

After a 16-hour flight, including a stop over and two taxi rides, we pulled into our village in Dorset a little shell shocked but thrilled to be home after our trip to Cambodia. The children scampered around the house in excitement and instantly threw themselves back into toys they had not set their eyes on for a few weeks. My husband and I began the mammoth task of unpacking wondering how we were going to get through the long day ahead with the jet lag looming.

After two weeks of spicy food, including countless stir fries and bowls of rice, the children opted for cereal, baked beans, toast and endless glasses of milk throughout the day. As my husband and I began to fade, becoming increasingly spaced out, the children’s hyperactivity levels gradually rose as did the noise levels.

I was in the midst of loading yet more washing into the machine when I was aware of a sudden stillness in the house. The noise of machine guns and shrieking was replaced by silence. I discovered The Toddler asleep with his head on the kitchen table, almost mid-mouthful, my son lying sprawled across the playroom floor mid-Power Rangers and our daughter curled up on her bed asleep mid-Secret Seven book. It was as if someone had cast a magic sleep spell on the house. The problem was that it was 4pm.

A couple of hours later, my husband and I were also defeated by tiredness. We collapsed into bed and I drifted into a dream-like state expecting to be offered a drink by a Singapore Air Hostess at any moment. Instead I was woken by shrieks of, “Can we have breakfast?” Still excited by the novelty of bowls of Cornflakes and fresh milk, I dragged myself downstairs leaving the children to dress into their school uniform. I let the dogs outside and glanced at the kitchen clock. 4am! I knew there was no hope of getting the children or dogs back to bed. There was nothing more for it than a couple of DVDs to take us all through the next five hours until school. As I sipped my tea at the kitchen table waiting for BBC Breakfast to begin, I heard barking outside. Aware of the neighbours, I dashed out to discover the dogs dashing down the lane after a keen jogger. There was no alternative but to run after them. The jogger glanced back stunned as he was faced with a large pregnant lady, dressed in nothing but an inappropriate nightie chasing after him in the early hours. Unbeknown to him, she was beset by jet lag.

The Jungle

We have now enjoyed a week of our holiday in Cambodia on the beach and beside the pool. My brother arrives one morning and says, “I think it would be fun to go up to the jungle for the weekend.” My husband and I look at each other. Had he momentarily forgotten that we have a six, four and two-year-old. He assures me the children will love it and that we have to experience the ‘real’ Cambodia.

We relent and set off on our expedition armed with numerous cans of mosquito repellant. We strap the travel cot to the back of the car; one of my conditions on going. Our four-year-old son is ecstatic and dressed the part in full camouflage, ready to fight off “snakes and local baddies”. Half way there, the car overheats and we come to an abrupt standstill. Needless to say, we are in the middle of nowhere and an AA call-out is out of the question. We donate our bottled water and turn to a nearby river for help. Finally, we set off again and later arrive at our destination, Kep Lodge. We are greeted by a variety of dogs, which instantly throws me into a panic as I had been warned that they were highly unpredictable with children. Laden down with children, bags and the travel cot, we are led to our accommodation; a large wooden hut on stilts with a straw roof. Below it is a pond which looks as though it could well be the home to a few crocodiles. “It looks like the family rooms are the most basic,” my brother says, highly amused.

If it had been our gap year, with just a backpack and not a care in the world, this place would have taken our breath away. However, as a parent I was struggling. As night falls and the children lie asleep next door beneath their mosquito nets, we listen to the jungle noises around us. “They will be all right next door won’t they?” I say. Five minutes later, we are moving the three children into our bed and bolting the doors and windows. Later, we are woken by loud thuds on the roof followed by screeching. My husband jumps out of bed ready to face our intruder, but soon realises it is probably some lively monkeys. I am ecstatic when the sun rises. I untangle myself from the mosquito net and step out of bed. There on the wooden floor is a spider the size of my hand. The children giggle with delight. The final straw is the two enormous tree frogs staring up at me in the bathroom.

On reflection, the children revelled in the whole jungle experience but my husband and I were stuck in ‘parent mode’. We were in the zone of wet wipes and travel cots, rather than rustic huts and jungle wildlife. One day we’ll return though, barefooted and child-free to take on the jungle again.

The aeroplane

We are on our way to visit my brother and sister-in-law. The problem is it involves a two hour car journey to Heathrow, a 13 hour overnight flight to Singapore topped off with a 2 hour flight to Phonm Penh in Cambodia.

I feel the glare of other passengers as the children run down the corridor to the cabin door of the plane with shrieks of excitement. We take our seats and are greeted by some friendly cabin crew. We wait for the other passengers to board and watch as they frantically check their seat numbers, praying they are not beside the young family.

I am apprehensive as The Toddler’s experience of travel is limited. I am convinced though that the television screens on the back of the seats will save the day and he will be engrossed in Dora the Explorer for a few hours. However, he yells when I attempt to put his earphones on, which promptly slip straight down his face. By now, he bored of sitting in his seat and decides it is time to get down before we have even taken off. I smile sweetly at the air hostess as my hand presses firmly down on his belt clasp pinning him to his seat. He hollows and shrieks, drowning out the Captain’s welcoming words. I feel like screaming out, “Forget the pleasantries, just get this aircraft moving.”

Finally, we are on our way and for the next few hours we pace up and down the plane, hand in hand with The Toddler, much to the annoyance of the cabin crew and their trolleys. Eventually, he is defeated by sleep, much to the relief of the suited man in front of us who has had to endure a small pair of Crocs kicking the back of his seat throughout supper. With the lights now dimmed, and everyone reclining their chairs for the night, the Toddler awakes, screaming at full pelt. I am in total panic and try to console him. “Do you want to sit on Mummy’s knee, have a cuddle or a gallon of chocolate?” People begin turning round putting me under more pressure and I run out of options. I lock us both in the loo and stay there for half an hour until the screams subside and he falls asleep. I return to my seat and carefully place him in his seat with his head on my lap. And there he remains for the next six hours. Meanwhile, I am motionless, not moving an inch for fear of waking him. My feet begin to tingle, my legs are totally numb and my hands are incapable of reaching into my bag for my book. I resort to reading the safety instructions in the back of the seat and wonder if it will all be worth it when we get there.