(Originally published in the March/April edition of NZ Little Treasures Magazine) It’s possible that parental affection combined with the passing of several decades had made memories fuzzy, but apparently I was The Best Ever Travelling Baby. Having heard family stories such as “the time we landed in Singapore and all the other passengers gasped in surprise because they had no idea there was a baby on the plane” and “the time you slept all the way to Hawaii”, I hoped my own babies would inherit my magical travelling gene. With a small degree of trepidation, we took Amy on her first long-haul flight when she was six months old. Six months: that magical age where they still sleep quite a bit and can’t move anywhere by themselves. The ratio of adults to children was 4:1 (we flew with my parents), we had a bassinet, three massive carry-on bags of books and toys, and even though we went through every single change of clothes thanks to reflux, I chalked the mission up as a success. So …