Eva Bradley: Trials of holiday with the babies

Eva Bradley

I'M in Queenstown. The sun is beating down on snowy peaks and glinting off the glassy surface of Lake Wakatipu. The slopes are awash with pleasure seekers sliding over the fluffy surface of the best snow base in years and the streets alive with the hum of carefree holiday-makers enjoying the wine which is as famous as the region's snow and scenery.

The resort town is also sporting three hotel rooms with the curtains drawn at lunchtime.

Yes, we're on holiday ... with babies.

Which one could definitely argue was no holiday at all.

But it's something every parent has to do at some point, and it falls on the same life learning curve as breastfeeding, burping and implementing a routine.

Step one is learning how to travel on a plane with a baby. One tip I can pass on is not to start this process with a quick family snap on the tarmac. The shot was completely ruined by the flight attendant running towards us with panic on her face because of our flagrant disregard for safety and regulations.

Once on the plane the holiday trauma began with the first wail of protest from a baby who was only going to be happy if he was crawling down the aisle or pulling the hair of the passenger in front.

A plethora of small toys, books, snacks and silly faces were offered as an alternative and a volley of prayers sent to the god of sleep in the hope that nap time arrived before the other alternative " a mid-air baby meltdown.

Forget off-piste powder days " when our son fell asleep on dad's lap, the holiday high could not have been greater.

This was somewhat dimmed when we walked into town and discovered we'd violated Parenting Rule 101 by forgetting nappies.

This necessitated a lengthy but ultimately fruitless search for a change table in any of the tourist town's public toilets and the subsequent high-risk solution of relieving a dirty nappy of its most offensive contents while suspending the uncooperative wearer of them in mid-air.

I don't think I've ever loved my husband more than when he opted to take over this task and left me to locate a drinking establishment.

You can imagine the delight of the proprietor of our chosen location when three large Mountain Buggy prams were pushed through the door and then their occupiers released to squawk, wail and generally act in a way one shouldn't inside a bar. Requests for high chairs and hot water to warm baby food were met with stoic good cheer by the staff but half way through the first glass of wine it became heartbreakingly obvious that there was a reason why you don't often see babies in restaurants and bars. They suck in them.

Sculling my Central Otago pinot in a bid to exit as soon as possible but with enough alcohol in my system to dull the stress brought on by the previous half hour, we fled through the streets hoping desperately to get home before our over-tired baby fell asleep and threw out his routine and our hope to have him asleep when the babysitter arrived.

Nothing gets a baby to sleep faster than a parent's desire to keep him awake and so when the sitter arrived he was ready to play ... but not with her.

And so it was that we turned up at one of Queenstown's more swanky restaurants with the dreaded Mountain Buggy. The looks from the staff were as icy cold as the mountain air outside but we'd booked this place weeks ago and were going to enjoy it, dammit.

-Eva Bradley is a columnist and photographer.