Babies love cars. Everyone knows that. It's the one guaranteed way to get a baby to sleep - jump in the car and drive.
Wrong. It appears we have created the only babe...in history...that hates the car.
We've tried everything. Mummy in the back holding his hand. Turns out it isn't separation anxiety. Mummy in the back jiggling toys. Turns out it isn't boredom. Giant muslin as a sunshade. Nope, not the sun's glare. Soothing lullaby music played at top volume. Big fat fail. A mirror with bizarre animations. £25 down the pan. We even tried playing 'In the night garden' on my Smartphone. Square eyes would be better than tears. Sneaking him in asleep (he wakes after 15mins max). Putting him in right after a feed. Travelling just before a feed. Nothing - nada - works.
Last week my neighbours will have seen me passing, windows wide open, baby screaming and me singing, no, yelling 'Old Macdonald' at the top of my voice. It worked for 5mins so I persisted until I could pull over, hoarse and exhausted.
I've lost count of the number of times Bubba and I have arrived at a destination both inconsolable. It's like a form of torture for a mummy. I can't bear the look of desperation when you extract him from the seat, his cheeks wet with real tears.
But living in the countryside, you have to get in a car. Or become a hermit.
It got me thinking, could the Monkey be car sick? So I observed him and I am convinced this is the problem. And no wonder. His dad gets terrible car sickness. Maybe he inherited it.
So this weekend we wound down the windows and I sat ready to mop his brow with a cold flannel as soon as he started to look a bit green. And sure enough the fresh air and tender mopping worked. He lasted 30mins. What he loves most of all is when you have one window open in the back and it makes that god awful flapping noise that hurts your eardrums. Dad is not best pleased with this.
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