Last week C had a week-long job scheduled out in
Germany, and we decided that the nicest way of managing his potential time away
from home was for me and M to go along with him. We’d hang loose in the
daytime, just as we do normally, and then we could fill our evenings with
Weissbier and sauerkraut and Craig wouldn’t have to go ages without seeing his
beloved firstborn. This seemed a sound plan when it was made a couple of months
ago – a 15-week old sounded practically grown up to us at that point. But man did
it roll round quickly. And so it was that I found myself at 4am last Saturday
deliberately waking Maggie up in order to get her into the car to Heathrow
(much to her chagrin, since she was just getting used to being told to put a
sock in it at 4am). Here is what the ensuing week taught me:
1. Babies need hold luggage
C booked carry-on only for the bambino, reasoning
that her clothes are very tiny and there would be a washing machine there
anyway. Clothes ain’t the half of it — babies travel very heavy, especially if
(like me) you are convinced that one particular toy might have a talismanic
effect on them vis a vis sleeping on planes, but you don’t know which toy it
might be, so you pack seven. Those mofos need hold space, possibly more than
you do.
2. Business means business
We had avios to use, so I travelled in business
with M while C was down the back. On the way out this was no biggie, as
business class is pretty empty on a Saturday morning. However, it turns out
that business class passengers (understandably) feel their extra money has been
spent not only on accessing free peanuts and real cutlery, but also on
guaranteeing a baby-free ride. I’ve never seen such unfriendly faces as when we
boarded the 8pm flight back from Hanover on Friday night – faces which only
melted into smiling and cooing when M had earned her stripes by staying silent
until we landed. I also felt quite judged by the assembled company in the
business lounge when I availed myself of two giant vodka tonics before
departure. But that is literally all that is in offer in Hanover lounge beyond
biscuits and a big jar of frankfurters, so it was a no-brainer.
3. Sunshine is not always good news
I wasn’t expecting Lower Saxony in spring to be 26
degrees, or for it to be full of people swimming in lakes and generally larking
about like it was August on the Riviera. I love sunshine, but babies do not. I
therefore spent days perfecting the ‘walk round the lake at the right time of
day with the sun in front of you so you get a face tan but M is protected’
routine, which worked well. That was until I read an Australian baby web site
which told me not to use a muslin as a sunshade for fear of roasting the baby,
and then I had to flee to the air bnb and perfect the ‘napping in the daytime
in the same bed without getting sweaty’ routine instead.
4. Swimming pools rock
There is a water complex in Hildesheim called
‘Wasserparadies’, and it couldn’t be more aptly named. M has been attending
‘water safety’ lessons in Brighton (not called swimming, as it is more the art
of not panicking at this stage) and so I though we would spend a warm and muggy
morning in the pool. The whole thing is about the size of my home town, with
enough changing rooms for an army, and it was deserted. We floated on the lazy
river, played in the baby pool, and practised splashing and kicking to our
little hearts’ content. Everyone we met there smiled at us and helped us out
even though my GCSE German has vanished, and I left absolutely loving life. M
left sleeping, which is just as good.
5. Going on holiday with a baby is weird
I don’t mean travelling with a baby per se, but
having a baby as your only company. We spent a whole week in Hildesheim and C
had to work every day, including the weekend, so we had a lot of time together
in what is not a particularly big or exciting town. It was brilliant and boring
in equal measure — I have learned how to make bath time last an hour, how to
transform a trip to H&M for baby pyjamas into a serious whole-afternoon
mission, and that Netto is the worst supermarket for prams in Europe (probably
the world). I have also learned never to take a baby into a cathedral if
someone is about to take to the organ. If that isn’t a valuable life lesson, I
don’t know what is. Also, babies love a glockenspiel, and Germans don’t seem as
interested in baby cooing as their neighbours to the south. German friends may
correct me, but it seems to me that in general Spanish and Greek people greet
babies as if they all might be the messiah, whereas Saxony folk glance at you
and nod before returning to their coffee and cake / giant beer and fags. It’s
strangely reassuring to be so roundly ignored — in fact it felt just like home.
Thanks for having us, Hildesheim.
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