There we were—a humble family of six, off on a long-anticipated holiday to Majorca. Flights were booked with TUI, airport parking sorted at East Midlands, spirits relatively high. We had dreams of sandy beaches and cocktails. What we got was a high-stress obstacle course sponsored by Trunki.
Act 1: The Great Airport Trek
The airport parking situation was my first blunder. I’d naively assumed “airport parking” meant near the airport. Turns out, it meant a mini trek across uneven terrain with the grace of a camel on rollerblades.
One of us had the baby and a toddler in a side-by-side stroller, with two more kids clinging on like they were trying not to be swept out to sea. And me? I was steering a trolley stacked high with suitcases and two of Satan’s own inventions: Trunkis. Whoever invented those needs a strongly-worded letter… and possibly sectioning.
Those little plastic ride-ons seem great in theory—kids pull them, sit on them, everyone smiles. In practice? You’re pulling empty Trunkis halfway across the airport while your kid is halfway back to Arrivals. Not even security personnel trust you when you can’t remember your own kids’ dates of birth at check-in. The look we got from the check-in clerk practically screamed, “Are you even their dad?”
Act 2: Airport Security – The Real Test of Parenting
Airport security with four kids is like herding caffeinated squirrels across a minefield. Devices had to come out of bags. The double buggy needed collapsing. One of us had the baby, I had the bags, and our toddler daughter decided to just leg it through security like a pint-sized fugitive.
Border Force weren’t amused.
I got barked at like I’d sent a toddler-sized suicide bomber through their checkpoint, while I flapped around trying to collect our belongings and my dignity. Just when we thought the worst was over, came The Milk Situation™.
“Just order your baby milk from Boots,” they said.
“Click and collect, easy,” they said.
What they didn’t say is that I’d be carrying nearly 100 bottles of pre-made Aptamil in four plastic carrier bags plus two Trunkis, plus hand luggage. Honestly, I should’ve just booked myself into the gym and called that my holiday.
Act 3: Final Boarding… And Final Nerves
After twenty-seven emergency toilet stops and more shouting than a pub car park at closing time, they called final boarding for our flight. We jogged to the gate like contestants on a game show called Survivor: The Family Edition, up the steps and onto the plane.
Everyone else was already seated, and we were greeted with the kind of stares usually reserved for murderers and people who clap when the plane lands. Our kids were screaming. I was whacking people in the head with bags like some kind of dad-shaped wrecking ball.
As the plane began its takeoff, our toddler channelled the fiery spirit of a banshee from the depths of hell:
“I NEED A WEE! I NEED A WEE! AAAAHHH I NEED A WEE!”
Not a single seatbelt on the planet was strong enough to hold her fury.
Act 4: The Calm After the Chaos (Sort Of)
Amazingly, the rest of the holiday went relatively smoothly. Sure, we made countless trips to the local supermarket for baby food jars only to find out on the very last day that the hotel actually provided them as part of the all-inclusive. Classic.
Moral of the Story?
Family holidays are not relaxing. They are survival missions with sand. But they’re also the stories you’ll be laughing about ten years later when the kids are grown and you’re pulling Trunkis through an airport for the grandkids.
Would I do it all again?
…Ask me after I’ve recovered.