A two-week-old baby needs its own passport. This means they also need their own photo. There are strict rules around what that photo needs to look like. Eyes open. Mouth closed. No smiling. Looking straight into the camera. Can’t be wearing white (so as not to get washed out) and the parent’s arm, head or any part cannot be visible in the photo.

If you don’t have much experience with a two or three week old newborn, let me enlighten you. They cannot hold their own necks up. They spend 99% of the day sleeping with their eyes closed tight. If they’re not sleeping they’re breastfeeding. They cannot sit up. They have almost zero muscle control and will spastically move and attempt to slither every few moments. Most newborns have scrunched up faces and don’t react well to light or sound. They are essentially blobs of flesh.

Luckily my blob is a little more responsive then most, but still I was panicked at the thought of going to the local post office/convenience store/passport photo drop place in my neighbourhood. The last time I was there, Suri was five months old and we spent 2 hours trying to get her passport photo taken. Suri could sit up. She had neck control. Her eyes opened. I had to sit behind her to make sure she didn’t fall off the stool. I was dripping sweat as the teenaged photographer prompted us, “OK turn her head this way”, “No that’s too far”, “OK that way now”, “OK can you crouch down as low as possible?” “No! You’re still in the shot.” “Move your hand,” and on and on it went until I was lying flat on the filthy convenience store floor with both arms outstretched above me holding up Suri’s bum and lower back screaming “Suri! Look at the camera” until finally the shot was taken.

At the passport office they scrutinized the photo as if I was 007 and my child a secret weapon.

Needless to say, the thought of doing it all over again with a two week old was a little nerve racking. I decided to forgo the convenience store/post office teen photog for a professional studio thinking they would be better equipped at the task.

I was right. In less than 20 minutes we had our shot. Viiva was prompted into a newborn ‘holder’ and as she happily blew her ass out I held her up and the photographer snapped away, finally getting a decent shot and then (magic!) she photoshopped my hand out of the photo.

Despite her innate sexiness, Viiva still manages to look like a three-year-old terrorist in the photo. Even a newborn can’t escape the nasty passport photo syndrome.

As if my tiny little angelic baby girls are a threat to national security. In some countries babies are just added to the mothers passport (which makes much more sense). Here, a two week old gets to keep her passport until she’s three years old! At three neither of the girls will look anything like the photo in their passport. Still I get it – I know it’s all about protocol and all about making sure your kids aren’t being kidnapped and used as sex slaves somewhere in Eastern Europe.

So with two baby passports in hand we set off for a sun vacation traveling for the first time with all four of us.

Baggage allowance: one checked bag, one carry on, one ‘personal item’ and one diaper bag.

What we packed: one checked bag, one carry on and six ‘diaper bags’.

We literally had six carry on’s – two of which were stuffed to the tits. Fortunately I quickly learned that traveling with babies means people cut you tons of slack.

Them: “Liquids in your carry on? “
Me: “Oh it’s for baby.”
Them “No problem then.”
Them: “What’s in that carry on?”
Me: “Baby stuff.”
Them: “And in that one?”
Me: “More baby stuff.”
What about that one? And that one? And the other one?
More baby stuff. Baby stuff and baby stuff.

That’s it. No asking us to put our liquids in a separate baggy, no real searching of the bags, nothing. Maybe it’s because no one can stand screaming babies that they try to rush you through or maybe it’s because they feel your pain when you’re lugging 8 giant bags, a stroller and two extra bodies that all regular airport protocol is abandoned.

We went through three security check points with tweezers, lip gloss, two litres of water, 6 juice boxes, sandwiches, spoons, bottles of sunscreen and cosmetics up the yin yang all in the carry-on luggage and no one blinked an eye.

They did decide however that taking off all our shoes (including the babies shoes!) was absolutely pertinent to ensuring the safety of the flight.
It was exactly at that point that Suri decided to lose her mind crying and screaming (nap time was missed). She refused to go through the metal detector and wanted to run the other way. Hubby has 6 bags draped on him and I’m carrying Viiva while trying to take my shoes on and off and not fall over.

On the flight we learned pretty quickly that patty cake patty cake sung over and over again probably wouldn’t entertain the toddler for long. Our secret weapon? The iPhone. We had downloaded three Disney movies before we left, put the phone on airport mode and viola! Baby was silent the entire way, enthralled by Wall-E, and I averted my greatest fear of all: being that parent, that absolute asshole parent with screaming babies on the flight. So, when travelling with babes remember: pack light (impossible) and bring a massive distraction, because if there’s one thing that makes a MILF incredibly unMILF-like, it’s her rabid baby screeching and terrorizing the entire plane.