Have you ever flown across the world with two small children?
No? Let me set the scene for you. Imagine being trapped in a metal tube for what feels like several lifetimes, with a two-year-old and a five-year-old as your emotional support animals—only they’re not supporting you emotionally; they’re draining you, bit by bit, like small, adorable vampires of energy and patience.
This was my first time flying back to the UK from New Zealand since having my two youngest children. It had been over seven years since I made the journey. Seven years! That’s a long time by any stretch, but especially long when you’re far from family, friends, and all the little places that make home feel like home. So yes—obviously—I was excited. Giddy, even. This trip had been a long time coming.
There were so many reasons it had taken this long. COVID, of course. That global reset button nobody asked for. And a rather difficult bout of IVF, which I won’t get into too much here but let’s just say it was physically, emotionally, and financially draining. Between that and the pandemic, time just slipped away. Suddenly it was seven years later, and two new humans were in the family who had never even met half the people who loved them from afar.
But now—finally—we were going. Home. We were going to see grandparents, siblings, childhood friends. My little ones were going to be hugged and fussed over, properly, for the first time. People who had only seen them on grainy video calls would get to see them in the flesh, with all their tiny quirks and boundless energy. It was going to be emotional. And beautiful. And… well, also a complete nightmare.
I don’t know how many of you have had the pleasure of doing the UK–NZ flight, but it is truly something. And I mean that both sarcastically and genuinely. Yes, it’s a privilege to be able to travel that far—let’s not pretend otherwise—but also: it sucks. It’s brutal. Long-haul flights in general are not kind, but this route in particular is designed to crush your soul and your lower back.
Now, I’m no stranger to uncomfortable journeys. I’ve done coach trips from London to Edinburgh—that’s eleven hours of knees-to-your-chest, no-sleep, mild-regret travel. So I’m not precious. I’m not someone who whines about a ten-hour flight. Ten hours? Pfft, fine. Eleven? Sure. Twelve? Let’s go. But then—then—they make you get off the plane, shuffle like a zombie through a brightly lit airport, and get back on a different plane to do it all over again.
By this point, you’ve eaten the questionable tray of chicken-or-pasta, watched your three allotted movies (at least one of which made you cry for no reason), drunk the tiny bottle of airplane wine, and maybe gotten an hour of sleep. You feel accomplished. Maybe even a little cocky. But then—BAM—they hit you with another full leg. It’s disorienting. It’s cruel. It’s the travel equivalent of a prank.
And this flight, this journey, was broken into not two, but three delightful legs. First: Auckland to Sydney. That’s a short hop, but it comes with its own complications. We had to deplane, collect ourselves, and then—joy of joys—go through customs again. Because clearly what every parent dreams of is dragging sleepy children and all their worldly possessions through another security check.
Next up: Sydney to Singapore. Not awful, but still long enough to wonder if time has lost all meaning. Then finally, the main event: Singapore to London. The big one. The long haul. The bit where hope goes to die.
Now, I’ll let you in on a little secret, some sage travel wisdom I picked up from this experience: bringing small children with you makes the whole thing so much easier.
Can you hear the sarcasm? You should be able to. I’m practically screaming it.
Yes, a two-year-old and a five-year-old make for delightful travel companions. If your idea of delight involves constant movement, snack negotiations, sudden inexplicable crying, and the looming threat of public embarrassment. My daughter, bless her, decided to add a special touch to the journey by throwing up on me mid-flight. Oh yes. Right there in the cramped seat, tray table down, turbulence up.
Did I pack a change of clothes for her? Of course. I’m not a rookie. Did I pack a change of clothes for myself? No. Because, apparently, I am a rookie. So I sat, soaked and stunned, for hours. The smell of regurgitated snacks wafting gently through the recycled cabin air. Glamorous, right?
It was a horror show. A full-blown, 18-rated, do-not-attempt-at-home horror show. I would not recommend it to anyone. Not even my worst enemy.
We learned a few things from this experience. Mainly: next time, we stop over. No more marathon hauls. We’ll break it up. Spend a few days in each stopover city—turn it into mini-holidays along the way. Auckland to Sydney? Great. Let’s have a beach day. Sydney to Singapore? Fantastic, let’s eat noodles and collapse in an air-conditioned hotel. Singapore to London? OK, let’s mentally prepare ourselves for that final leg like we’re heading into battle.
Of course, all of that requires more time and more money—and if you’ve got small kids, you know that time and money are in short supply. So it may just be a beautiful idea that lives in the fantasy realm. But who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe we’ll win the lottery. Or discover some rich great-aunt in a will. Fingers crossed.
Despite all of it—the puke, the fatigue, the sheer duration—we survived. We made it. We landed in London, bedraggled but buzzing. The kids were wide-eyed, despite the jet lag. I was somewhere between emotional and delirious, but so ready to see the people we’d been waiting years to hug.
And the best part? I didn’t know it yet, but something big was about to happen.
A friend of mine—someone I hadn’t seen in years—was going to do something that would change my life in a massive way. But in that moment, all I could think was: We did it. We’re here.
Let the real adventure begin.