The Worst Birthday in the World

I tried to pretend it wasn’t happening.  I guess I’d had a year’s warning that it was GOING to happen, but I still tried to pretend it wasn’t.

I even stayed up until midnight, thinking that maybe if I didn’t go to sleep, the time continuum would get confused and it might stay April 19^th forever.

I clearly forgot to share this plan with Maz because at 1202hrs on the second 19^th April 2013 my phone buzzed.

“Happy Birthday Mumma, love you lots xxx”

Dammit. 

After crying myself to sleep, I woke the next morning to the smell of freshly brewed coffee.  That and the smell of Murmie standing on my chest sniffing my mouth.

As I roused from slumber, stretching cutely whilst imagining that I looked like Snow White after the kiss from her prince, I was harshly reminded that I was no longer in her ballpark in the generation game.  I HAD had my doubts about the full-length mirrors in our bedroom when we viewed the place, but I could never have been expected to anticipate such a harsh lesson in the “fuck you’re getting really old now” subject.

Quickly covering all exposed parts of my body with blankets, my robe, and when I ran of those – Murmie - I smiled at Neil while simultaneously being aware of not inviting more wrinkles around my eyes or forehead.  I think I succeeded in pulling off a Jack Nicholson “The Joker” impersonation because when Neil walked in to the bedroom with a tray he looked a little alarmed before pulling himself back together and whispering “Happy Birthday babes…”

Despite the lack of a beautiful diamond ring or Air Traffic Controller Rating on my breakfast tray, I was still pretty pleased.  Hotcakes, maple syrup, butter, coffee, a card and flowers picked from our garden.  What more could I ask for?  (Except for the diamond ring or Air Traffic Controller rating).

Eating my breakfast, of only one pancake because I’m aware now that lumps come easier and leave harder on a 40+ year old, I smiled and thought about the day ahead.

The girls were due to arrive in Melbourne at 5.30pm.  We had time to come home first and drop their bags off;  hear stories about how much of a bitch each of the other sisters are;  pat Bozzie; scare Murmie;  mess the bedroom up a little bit with makeup and hair straighteners and clothes and shoes;  mess the bathroom up a little bit with makeup and shampoo and face cleansers and shoes;  mess the kitchen up a little bit with lolly wrappers and shoes;  mess the lounge up a little bit with more bags and more clothes and more shoes;  then make our way into town for dinner.

After a lovely family dinner at a beautiful Malaysian restaurant, the plan for Neil and Ty was to make their way home via a supermarket, and get a scrumptious dessert ready for when Maz and I arrived home.  The plan for Maz and I was to walk to the Melbourne Town Hall theatre to catch a live show at the Comedy Festival -  “Joel Creasey – Drama Queen”.  It was R16 so I was excited about her getting to experience something more appropriate to her age and a little bit more grown-up than the Pixar movies we normally go and see with Ty.

I lazed around in bed for a while, allowing myself the luxury of not studying or thinking about aeroplanes, but simply playing games on Facebook and pretending I couldn’t see Neil beside me eyeing me up.  I think he was trying to count my wrinkles.  Or my rings, although that would have been difficult given that I still had my robe on.

I hadn’t heard from Maz since her rude reminder at midnight, so I text her and told her to let me know when they were at the airport and safely checked in. 

I hadn’t heard anything by 1.50pm NZ time and they were supposed to be checked in by 1.40pm, so I text again.  No reply.  No biggie.

I still hadn’t heard anything by 2.00pm their time so I text again.  No reply.  No biggie.

I still hadn’t heard anything by 2.10pm their time so I text again.  I got a reply. 

“Oh yep, we’re just on the motorway.  There’s a bit of traffic.”

After changing my undies, I text back. 

“What the?  Bloody hell, what is Dad doing?  You’re supposed to be there by now, checked in and going through security and nearly ready to fly over here!”

(in summarised text speak, of course)

No reply. 

I still hadn’t heard anything else by 2.20pm their time so I text again.  I got a reply.

“Chill out old lady.  We’re nearly there.”

I felt my body clock fast-forward right through 41, up to and through 42, 43 and 44 reading those last three words.    Nearly there?? 

Not able to relax until I knew they were on the plane, I text again.  I got a reply.

“We’re hungry and Dad didn’t give us any money.”

I took that as affirmation that they were at the airport, through security and immigration, and hanging around the international lounge café looking like starving abandoned waifs.  After transferring enough money to buy them water and half a scone each, I relaxed a little and found their flight on Flight Tracker.  There’s nothing more satisfying than seeing their flight take off, seeing that they’re 38km down 2,812km to go; then refreshing the screen to see that they’re now 97 km down 2,753 to go. 

Neil enjoys the 5-minute updates too.  I know this because of his reaction every time I tell him.  He says “wow babe… that’s really exciting…” but then unfortunately for him, he always seems to have some pressing job to go and do and doesn’t get to watch the rest of the countdown with me.

Sitting on my bed still, I sat back to relax and watch the progress.  The third time I refreshed, I did a double-take at my screen.  The little flight tracking blip wasn’t heading towards Melbourne.  In fact, it wasn’t heading towards Australia at all.  It was pointing to New Plymouth.

This didn’t come as any great joy to me because at that particular moment I was nowhere near New Plymouth.  I was also nowhere near 15,000 feet, which was where it appeared they had now descended to after having been at 25,000 feet about three minutes before.

Now, granted I’ve not been an AIRLINE pilot before, but generally with all the aircraft I’ve flown, when you are at a lower altitude three minutes after being at a higher altitude, it normally means you are descending.  Not happy with this plan, I refreshed my screen about six times in the next minute.  Unfortunately with each new screen image, the altitude got lower and lower.  Then, to add insult to injury, the little history dots started going around in circles.  Which, logic would dictate, means the aircraft they’re in is also going around in little circles.

Not happy with this new turn of events, I did what any parent of children on a trans-tasman flight would do.  I texted an Air Traffic Controller who works at Melbourne Centre and asked him to find out what was happening.  He wasn’t working at the time, but that was a minor detail.

Turns out that until the aircraft is actually within a koala’s throw of Australia, Australia ATC don’t get told every intimate detail of what is happening with their pending aircraft. 

I’m shocked.

But bless Magsy for not ridiculing me and laughing, and actually saying he’ll do his best to find out.  Perhaps someone warned him there was an emotionally unstable pre-menopausal woman inside me just screaming to get out.  Although if so, one would then have to question why he casually reminded me what the flight pattern might infer.

Flying at a low altitude, flying in a very large pattern.  Low altitude, large pattern.  Low altitude… oh my god.  They were dumping fuel and they had no oxygen. 

It’s true what they say.  Sometimes a little bit of knowledge is a bad thing.  And sometimes, a little bit MORE knowledge is a terrible thing.    Falling to my knees in the back yard, wailing and shaking my fist at the sky, I curse the Fate Gods for taking my children from me at such a young age. 

Their age, clearly, not mine.

Mid banshee-wail, I remembered Plan B - Qantas.  They’ll know by now if one of their aircraft is incapacitated and people are falling from the sky, surely. 

Logging onto their website proves almost as fruitless - except to see that there is still a destination for their flight and it’s now Auckland.  I’m unsure if this is better or worse than 15,000 feet at New Plymouth, but I know it’s better than 0 feet at Raglan Beach. 

I gave Qantas a call but the helpful ladies at the Customer Service Centre were unable to offer any customer service.  Telling them it was my birthday didn’t suddenly empower them with more knowledge, so I cursed them and their pet cats, and hung up.  Bitches.

An hour later the little velocity trail was still making circles around New Plymouth and still at 15,000 feet and I suddenly remembered our Comedy Show.  Doing the maths on my fingers, I realised we’re going to be pushing it if they are more than 90 minutes late.  Checking flight tracker I breathe a sigh of relief to see that they’re only delayed by 30 minutes.

So… now… just wait. 

Before you all laugh and call me names and say things like “pffft *snigger* she’s always going on about how good at maths she is!”, IN my defence I’ve just had the shock of turning a year older and the shock of my children being a rapid decompression plane crash;  my normal reasoning hasn’t had a chance to emerge its wee head in this whole situation and take control.   Once I did more maths, under the close supervision of Neil, I realised we now have a crisis.

Logging on to the appropriate web page I discovered to my horror that there are no exchanges or refunds available for our show.  However, seeing that a later show has now been scheduled, pushing my luck, I ring them with my sob story.

“It’s my birthday today, and my daughter was in a rapid-decompression on her way over from New Zealand to come to a show with me and her flight has been delayed.  We won’t make it on time, please, please, pleeeeeeeeease are you able to pull some strings and change our ticket to the later show?  I know the early one is sold out, so I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting rid of our tickets!  Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?”

The nice man assured me that, even though it’s against policy, and highly unlikely, he’ll go and make enquiries and do his best to get back to me soon.  Not being overly optimistic, I go straight for the jugular.  Straight to the comedian himself.

Well, his Facebook page anyway.

Luckily for me, he’s recently made a post about his show.  More specifically, how the first one has sold out.  And also luckily for me, there appears to be loads of interest in his show so I was confident they’d be able to rehome our original tickets.   Making a desperate post along the same lines as my plea to the ticketing agency, there’s nothing more I can do but sit back and wait to hear.

Another desperate check on Flight Aware showed an arrival time in Melbourne of 2015hrs and their flight track as a nice wee straight line somewhere near Hamilton.  Dinner was definitely off the cards but the show was still on the table.

Twenty minutes later I got a text from Maz along the lines of “you’ll never fricken guess where we fricken are stupid fricken planes fricken frick!”

In summary, over the next hour was series of phone calls that went something like this:

“We’re on a fricken bus Mum on the runway and its fricken hot and Tyra is crying”

“We’re still on the fricken bus Mum and Tyra nearly fainted”

“We’re still on the fricken bus Mum and Tyra is starving”
“We’re still on the fricken bus Mum and some lady took Tyra”

“We’re in the terminal Mum and we don’t know what’s happening”

“They gave us some vouchers for food Mum but everyone else got $20 each and me and Tyra only got $20 between us.  Assholes”

“We’re still in the terminal Mum and no one knows what we’re doing”

“We’re still in the terminal Mum and everyone is just wandering around looking lost”.

By this time I’ve also made about sixteen calls to Qantas to try and find out what was going on, but the lady assured me that everything was under control.

They had a finalised departure time of 2130hrs and they were due in Melbourne at 2330hrs.

Crossing my fingers, I made a quick call to Qantas Club explaining that, firstly it was my birthday; secondly I had two children stranded at Auckland airport waiting to fly to Melbourne, one of whom was only 11.  Expressing my concern at them being unsupervised for so long, I asked if they could please under these circumstances be let into the lounge to wait for their flight.

“They should have been given a food voucher by our staff, that’s what our records show.  Were they not able to eat?”

“It’s not their nutrition I’m worried about, they’ll be fine.  I just want them somewhere safe and secure and comfortable seeing as they’ve got such a long wait.  They won’t want to eat anything.”

“Sure, no problems send them down and we’ll look after them”.
 
“Maz!  You and Ty are allowed in the Qantas Club Lounge!  Get down there quick, and eat as much as you both possibly can!!!”

Having realised she wasn’t going to make even the second show, Maz suggested Neil and I still go the original one as planned as there was no point in all of us missing out.    I was disappointed she wasn’t coming, but excited again that I’d get to see the show.

My phone rang.

“Hi, is this Karolyn?  It’s Janine here from Ticketmaster.  Great news!  Although they don’t normally do it, in fact they NEVER do it, the promoters have agreed to change your tickets!  We’ve explained the situation to them, and they’ve said it’s all sorted, they’ve reserved two seats for you at the 11pm show!”

“Uh….. um…. gosh hahaha, weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeell … you’ll never believe this…”

After apologising profusely, and once again telling them it was my birthday, it was time to get my party gears on and get going. 

Navigating the way to a carpark in town that costs less than a night’s accommodation is always a challenge; so it was no great surprise that by the time we were safely parked and walking through China Town on the way to the restaurant, we were hardly talking.

That I was in little heels and a tight skirt didn’t make it a particularly easy task keeping up with Neil’s long dress-free stride, so I petulantly slowed down, took my time and smiled away to myself… and to most people who walked past me.  Retrospectively, I realise I probably looked like a cougar out on the prowl. 

Arriving at the restaurant I was delighted to see it was full of Asians.  This place obviously knows it’s Pad Thai from it’s Fu Yung.

After a delightful meal, which was a huge bowl filled with salt-and-pepper chicken ribs that I somehow managed to devour all on my own (I think I must have dropped a few somewhere) I was faced with a problem.  There was still about two glasses of wine left in the bottle, and Neil didn’t want even one because he was driving.

As dire as the situation was, I knew I was the only person in the world capable of solving this crisis.  And so, with the determination of Stephen Hawking reciting a poem and the power of Beatrice Faumuina throwing a shot, down it went.

The walk back in the direction of the car park was decidedly more pleasant.  For me.

We were a little concerned we wouldn’t find the Town Hall, and I stopped several times to consult the Nav App on my phone.  Had I just looked up, I might have noticed the 960 people milling around a very large and very-well-lit Town-Hall-looking building waiting for their various shows to start.  After visiting the bathroom three times while cursing Neil for making me drink an entire bottle of wine, we were safely in our seats – not in the front row as demanded by Mr Introvert – waiting for the show to start.

I thanked the Karma Gods more than once for my third bathroom visit – the show was so hilarious there would have been collateral damage had I been a little less prepared.  Projection and Planning,  my instructors call it.

About ten minutes into the show, I noticed some writing on Joel’s palm, and thought he might have just penned a new one-liner and need some kind of memory prompt.  About ten seconds later, Neil pointed it out too. 

“Babe, babe, LOOK!  At his hand!”

“Yah, I saw that.  Taking notes or something”
 
“Babe… have another look – can’t you read that??”

On closer inspection I discover that it’s actually a person’s name written on his hand.

My name.

There MAY have been another Karolyn Couch in the audience, but if there was she didn’t make herself known.

I spent the next ten minutes alternating between near-incontinence at his jokes; and near-incontinence-with-paralysis at the thought he might be about to completely flame me, under the false impression that I hadn’t made it to the show on time.

It turned out to be the best birthday surprise ever, as he stepped down from the stage with a DVD in his hand asking “is there a Karolyn in the audience?” and I hesitantly put my hand up… “yep, yep, here, here Joel, I’M HERE, I’m Karolyn, yooohoooo Joel… I’m here!!!”

I think that’s how it went in Neil’s head, as every single eye in the room turned to look at us, but I believe I just put my hand up and, uncharacteristically, whispered “…yep, um, that’s me..?”

“Hi Karolyn!  So, you flew in from NZ for the show tonight?”

“Um, nope, my daughter did”

Joel glances at Neil.

“Oh, but her flight was delayed and she didn’t make it!”
 
“Oh no!  And, it’s her birthday today, is that correct?”

“Um, nope, but it’s mine”

“Well, happy birthday Karolyn, and here’s a wee present for you daughter, I’m sorry she couldn’t make it to the show.  I hope she enjoys it!”

I sure will, thanks Joel.

After a fantastic time with Joel, we left town with an hour of my birthday still remaining.  The best was yet to come, I couldn’t wait, we headed out to the airport and I got more and more excited the closer we got.  They were due in at 11.30pm and I was a little concerned we’d be late, but I was sure they’d forgive me.    A late mother is better than a mother with a towel around her waist smelling like an a litter tray.

Finally arriving, I teetered my way into the arrivals hall and pushed my way to the front of the queue so I’d be the first to see them when they walked through the doors.  The three people waiting didn’t look impressed that I stood right in front of them, but I explained patiently that it was my birthday.

Time check, yep, still my birthday, still time for hugs and adoration and praise at my accomplishment of making it this far in life relatively unscathed.  A broken nose, a few stretchmarks, a divorce and a plane crash are pretty insignificant bumps in the road. 

A mountain road in Peru perhaps,  not a Country Club entrance road.

Finally, the double doors open, and passengers start filing out.  Bald man, fat lady, emo teen, old couple, young couple, business man, trendy metro sexual, hindu family.  Every possible passenger except my girls.  After counting them like sheep and getting past 12, my patience is wearing thin. 

Just then, I see a flash of black clothes.  I see some long electronically-straightened hair.  I see big brown eyes with long eyelashes.  I see a beautiful smile and hear a melodious voice. 

Then I see a blue skirt over brown leggings with a red top and green shoes and I know it could only be one person on this planet.  My youngest offspring.

Waiting for their hugs and undivided attention, I glance down at my watch.

12.03am.

The Best Mummy In The World

Briar was about four weeks old, and I was still in the Guilt Phase.   Any parent of more than one child will know what I mean.

It had been just Maz and I for nearly two years, my total undivided devotion to one absolutely adored child.  We spent our entire days together from sun-up to sun-down.  We ate together, we played together, we bathed together, and – while she was potty training – we peed together.

I’d had the usual pang of guilt while pregnant with Briar, trying to explain to Maz that we loved her so much and she was so wonderful that we wanted to have another baby just like it.

In hindsight, it’s probably not the best selling point.  If Neil came home and told me he loved me so much he wanted to get another girlfriend just like me, I’d probably react the way Maz did too.

Well, I probably wouldn’t bite the new girlfriend on the cheek while she was sleeping;  but I too definitely would have asked him when we were going to take it back to the hostibal.

To add insult to injury, not only was this new arrival taking all of my previously dedicated devotion-time, it was getting special treatment too.

As Maz watched me breastfeed one afternoon, we had a rather odd conversation.  I can only blame myself for her lack of education, but in fairness I couldn’t have been expected to have foreseen this particular topic.

“Mummy, I not like milk, aye Mummy?”

“No darling, you don’t really like milk do you?”

“No.  I not like milk.  Milk yuck”

“Well mummy likes milk, but Madison doesn’t”

“I like memonade Mummy”

“Yes, you do like lemonade missy don’t you?  It’s all bubbly and funny isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I like it aye Mummy?”

“Yep.  You sure do.”

“You make me some memonade in that one Mummy?”

So not only was I effectively ignoring her a lot lately, I was also refusing to lactate lemonade.  I was on the back foot to begin with.

One morning I decided we’d visit the toy library to see what was on offer, and much to Maz’s delight there was a toy kitchen there.  We’re talking uber-cool toddler kitchen here, it was so large it only just fit in front of the Falcon on the bench seat.   Using the column change was a little tricky, but I was a safe Mum and with the girls both happily strapped into their appropriate car seats in the back, it wouldn’t fit.

Well, it WOULD, but it just didn’t seem right driving home with Maz’s head inside an oven.

When we got home I told Maz she needed to have a nap while I got her kitchen ready.  It must have been the first time she went to sleep without the mandatory 45 minutes of negotiations.  I got Briar down to sleep as well, and starting devising my elaborate plan of becoming The Best Mum In The World.

I started by preparing all of Maz’s favourite lunch foods.  I made little luncheon sandwiches and cut them into tiny little triangles.  I cut carrots into little strips and I cut cheese into little squares.  I chopped some strawberries and washed some grapes.  I opened a pack of her favourite muesli bars and I poured her some nice juice.  

I put all these little snacks into various pieces of her little tea set then hid them all through the little kitchen.

I was so excited about her finding her surprise that I was getting impatient for her to wake up before Briar did.  I may have gone in and whispered her name and when that didn’t work poked her and when that didn’t work kissed her on the cheek and combined that with accidentally banging into her bed and shaking it like a 5.6 on the Richter and she finally roused her from her sleep.

“Missy, oh my goodness!  While Mummy was getting lunch ready I’m SURE I heard someone playing with your kitchen!”

She rubs her eyes and slowly stumbles out of bed as I pull her by her hand excitedly from the bedroom to the lounge, where the huge little kitchen is sitting in all it’s glory.

“I don’t know who it was, but I’m sure I heard the doors opening and shutting!”

She hides behind my legs looking over towards her kitchen a little warily.

I didn’t really think this through too well either.

“I’m pretty sure I heard little fairy giggles!  What do you think they were doing?”

“I dunno!   What in my kitchen?”

“I don’t know missy, why don’t we have a look?”

Over we walk and, looking a little happier now, she starts making her way around the kitchen.  Opening the little microwave door, she spies a plate of little sandwiches.  Her eyes light up and she moves on to the next bit.  Pulling out the little drawer, she sees her little teacup with cheese bites in it.  On to the little pot on the stove, she lifts the lid and finds some carrot sticks inside.  Her smile is getting bigger as she makes her way to the bottom cupboard and discovers another teacup filled with strawberries and a saucer of grapes.  Moving around she opens the second bottom drawer to find a muesli bar and a little teapot full of juice. 

I’m biting my lip and wiping my eyes, so caught up in the simple delight and joy that I’ve bought to her wee afternoon.  Her whole face is beaming now, as she reaches up and discovers the last item – the holy grail of toddler food – a packet of raisins.  

She finally laughs, claps her hands, and says “ohhhhhh… fank you Daddy!”