Or how I nearly lost my mind before even leaving the country
The Great Oversleeping Disaster
Slept through my alarm — because obviously. Cue full-blown household panic. I launched out of bed like a mum on a mission, channelling Arnold Schwarzenegger:
“GET TO THE CAR!”
Except instead of combat boots and a chopper, it was me, half-dressed, barefoot, flinging snacks into bags and shouting into the void.
Somehow, we got the entire family out of the house, in the car, and on the motorway in 13 minutes flat. If frantic family packing was an Olympic sport, we’d be on a cereal box.
Checklist Chaos & The Invisible Offender
As always, we did the classic roll call:
Passports ✔️
Snacks ✔️
Buggy ✔️
Emotionally fragile parent ✔️
All three kids ✔️ (Because we’re not remaking Home Alone today.)
Fifteen minutes in, my eldest asked, “Do you smell that?”
Queue full-body panic: gas leak? engine trouble? existential dread?
Then the middle one yelled, “Someone’s done a poo!”
We swerved into the nearest service station like we were in Fast & Furious: Mum Edition. I’m crouched in the back like a pit crew technician, baby wipes flying everywhere.
Plot twist: the nappy was pristine. Sparkling. The smell? Devastating. It was a fart with main character energy — a toddler gas leak masquerading as a biological weapon.
On the Road (Again)
Kids cleaned, snacks redistributed, and husband inexplicably starts singing “On the Road Again” like we’re in a feel-good Disney montage. I looked at him like, Sir. Please. Not while I have baby wipes in my bra and PTSD from phantom poo-gate.
But the sun came up. The roads were clear. We had one collective breath of relief and hope — that fragile kind of joy you whisper so the travel gods don’t ruin it.
Airport Mayhem: I Blame the Flight Time
Let me be clear: I used to be smug about early flights.
“Beat the crowds,” I said.
“This’ll be chill,” I thought.
Well. I booked a slightly later one and paid for that hubris in blood, sweat and baby rice cakes.
The airport was carnage. Wall-to-wall people, queues like theme park rides, and a flight delay just to spice things up. I missed 5am ghost town terminals. This was Glastonbury with suitcases.
Wizz Air: Boarding or Bust
The gate agent had the vibe of someone one scream away from quitting mid-shift:
“Boarding for priority! I will not call it again!”
She barked like she was at an auction for livestock.
I turned to my husband and whispered, “Who took the jam out of her doughnut?”
She hadn’t known peace since 2019, I swear.
We queued. We boarded. We sat. And then… another delay. Because of course.
Sky-Tin Meltdown
Just when we were finally airborne, my youngest decided to channel all his rage. Full meltdown.
Screaming. Thrashing. Spirit-summoning level tantrum.
I was holding a banshee while the other two fought over a single packet of crisps like it was the last meal on Earth.
I wasn’t a mum anymore — I was a broken woman in a flying tin can, dreaming of silence and strong coffee.
BUT THEN.
A miracle.
Shout out to Teresa and the two angel mums of Wizz Air flight 6303 who offered help, snacks, solidarity, and the look of “We’ve been there.”
They had the compassion only sleep-deprived parents can offer. Bless them and their caffeine-fuelled kindness.
Final Thoughts: Chaos Achieved, Milan Secured
This journey was part sitcom, part psychological endurance test. There was shouting, sweating, phantom faeces, spontaneous karaoke, and a dramatic descent into mum madness.
But… we made it.
Milan, brace yourself.
La famiglia has landed — sticky, snack-laden, mildly traumatised, and ready to snack our way through your pastries.
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- Orlando Travel Diary: First Class Flights, Villa Goals & Stormy Skies.
- Chaos, Coasters, and Doughnuts: Our Family Day at Blackpool Pleasure Beach
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