Even with a perfect flight, doing a long haul with kids is hell

The general public love flying with children as much as they love finding a pebble in their shoe. However, what most people don’t understand is that for parents, flying with children is about as much fun as having your teeth pulled. We really, really don’t want to do it.

This year, our long-haul flight to Europe begins with blood. Tripping over a suitcase, my 18-month-old smashes his teeth, necessitating an emergency dentist visit on the way to the airport. It’s the first in many lessons a long haul will teach you about parenting: accept that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

When flying long haul with kids, accept that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.Credit: iStock

We’re warned our baby’s teeth would hurt the most during the 24 hours we’d be travelling, and at the gate he throws a massive screaming tantrum, cutting his tooth again, and spitting a blood bubble onto my shirt. His seven-year-old brother simultaneously tangles himself in the barrier and trips over. Around us, our fellow passengers’ eyes grow wide with horror. The staff wisely usher us through before general boarding.

“I want to sit upstairs”, my son declares with naive enthusiasm as we board, thinking bagging a seat on an A380 is the same as the stampede on the school bus. He manages to get halfway up the steps to business class before I redirect him to cattle class. However, we end up with a pretty sweet consolation prize: the bulkhead on both flights.

There are some things you can do to alleviate the stress of flying with children. Namely, fly the most direct route with the shortest connection time on the best service airline you can afford. Unfortunately, that means coughing up major dollars. In our case, booking late means we’ve paid an insane $13,000 to fly Singapore Airlines to Europe during peak season.

To be fair, the staff are extremely helpful: snacks are fetched, bottles are warmed, bags are relocated, meal trays whisked away. One of the staff even draws a cartoon card for my son, thanking him for being on the flight.

However, this doesn’t stop the experience going downhill. The eldest drops a cup of water into my bag, water seeping over boarding passes and passports, prescription medication and all the documentation for our trip. My baby fights with the other baby in the bulkhead, screeching and snatching toys. Both kids don’t sleep.

On arrival in Singapore, the passenger behind us congratulates us on how well the baby’s behaved. On cue, our eldest bursts into sobs. We spent so much time fussing with the baby, the big kid doesn’t get the help he needs to make it through the flight. Dysregulated, tired and sugared up on treats from the crew, he cries and tells us he doesn’t like planes and wants to go home. We talk him down, feed him up, ride the SkyTrain and visit the Lego store to try to fix the damage.

The second flight goes as expected: after 10 minutes of convincing security the 120 millilitres of liquid antibiotics we’re carrying shouldn’t be confiscated, we settle in for 14 more hours of exhaustion, distraction, desperation and horror.

The oldest kid cycles between complaining he’s bored, and demanding to get off the plane. There is no movie, no video game and nothing else that will hold his interest: yanked from his routine, he is utterly miserable, and by default, we are too.

With sore teeth the baby sleeps at most 20 minutes at a time, crying when awake and biting me out of frustration and pain, drawing blood. He soaks through his clothes twice, leaving a giant stinking wet patch on my partner’s lap the first time, and mine the second. By the time the seatbelt sign switches on for our descent into Amsterdam, I am covered in blood, breast milk, urine, apple juice, tomato relish, yoghurt and faeces (my elbow losing the last nappy change battle). I have not slept. I feel disgusting, and I smell bad.

But after all that, what is waiting at the other end is worth it.

The grandparents peer through the windows at arrivals in anticipation, carrying blankets and winter jackets, scarves and hot water bottles. They envelop the kids in their arms with the intensity and enthusiasm of grandparents who have waited too long between cuddles. And for a moment, just a moment, my sentimentality helps me forget that in 28 days I have to do this again in reverse.