Last week, prior to the kidlet’s birthday, I went to Sydney for a couple of days for work. The night before I left, I said my good byes to the Devil Child. Then she made me reenact the damn scene again with full fake tears and hugs, as if I was at the airport, as my goodbye was apparently substandard.
Anyway, after my farewell was completed to her satisfaction, she expressed some concern that I wouldn’t make it back in time for her birthday to which I replied that she being ridiculous and OF COURSE I’d be back for her birthday. Wouldn’t miss it for the world… and so on.
I went on my merry way… touristing around Sydney and finding rad bars such as Bloodwood and getting nostalgic for Wellington. Oh, and working really hard too. Yes. Really hard. (ACTUAL TRUTH. LOTS OF MEETINGS. V. PRODUCTIVE. DECISIONS MADE. RELATIONSHIPS BUILT. AND THEN JUST A FEW COCKTAILS.)
And then on Saturday morning, the day prior to the party, also the day that I had to bake a cake and get various party things partyfied, the same very Saturday that I promised that I’d be back, we get to the airport and see the departures board read FLIGHT CANCELLED.
And frick me did it go through my head that the child has some sort of supernatural ability. Like the time she declared she believed in God because she’d prayed for ice cream and by some divine miracle, The Boy had decided that afternoon to pick up some good old hokey pokey. WHAT IS GOING ON, PEOPLE?
Luckily, my friend and travelling companion has super demanding powers and when the Air NZ woman finally called us to advise us the flight had been cancelled (after the flight was scheduled to have departed, mind), she made it absolutely clear that we were getting back home THAT DAY.
Hell. I wasn’t going to mess with the kidlet after that.
I made it back late that night and found that my lovely friend had baked a cake for the kidlet’s birthday and managed to circumvent my much anticipated stress induced breakdown.
And so I survived birthday panic stations for one more year. With an international trip and potential airport stranding thrown in for good measure.
And now I have a cold sore. Again. Good times.