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The sound of a suitcase being rolled across a floor is enough to make my hairs stand up on end. Kieran suffers a more extreme form of suitcase PTSD that triggers proper nausea. And yet, every few months, the suitcases come out again.

We moved to Singapore from New Zealand because we wanted to travel. We were young. We had no worries, no real plans and no responsibilities. Every month we’d pack our suitcases and head off somewhere new.

Then I started traveling for work, and I stopped unpacking my suitcase. And then a few months later, I turned into a suitcase. (In that I was pregnant, if you didn’t get where this was heading.)

After spending 100 hours hurtling through in the sky in utero (time will reveal the effect this had on him, but for me it really honed my pelvic floor), our little Louis (Louie) spent half his first year of like living out of a suitcase. At one point we even made him a portacot in a suitcase.

Since being born, he’s spent another 100 plus hours in the sky as we carted him (along with eight massive suitcases, a stroller, a portacot and a carseat) from New Zealand to New York via Singapore and London. Just to keep him on his toes, we then took him to the East Coast, twice, and to New Zealand via Hawaii.

This year doesn’t have as much travel on the cards, mostly because we realised that flying with a toddler really sucks. That said, we are about to move to a new apartment. It’s just down the road, but the suitcases will come out again.

Maybe it’s because I’ve lived in 23 homes that I am cursed with this itchy feet syndrome, which I am now passing on to another generation. In any case, I am lucky-enough (or irresponsible-enough) to indulge it, for now anyway.

This blog is intended to offer my advice on travel, relocation and city living with a baby/toddler/child, but it will probably just end up being a tired mum’s tired old dribble. Yet another mommy blog. Just what the world needs!

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