It's a Dad's Life/Adam Brophy:The Elder is five. It's been six years since I paid much consideration to travelling abroad - one week in Portugal when she was 11 months turned me in favour of the domestic holiday. The Missus dragged both kids to the Canaries last year while I holidayed at home. You can guess who was most rested on her return.

You can't legislate for relatives getting married in far-flung places though, so I am writing this somewhere over the Atlantic during a period of calm. My sister in law is marrying one Daniel Sansone of Saratoga Springs, Upstate New York. Mr Sansone oozes New York; he barbecues, banters and busts balls. We have a week to soak up some grassroots NY culture in the company of his crew and clan, pre-nuptials. He has promised football games and hunting trips and some serious Irish-American harmonisation. All good news for this American virgin.

I had argued that this be an adult trip, ditching the kids with Granny for a long weekend. However, the bride put the kybosh on that, naming both monsters as flower girls. I couldn't bring myself to deny them, so instead we're building a two-week holiday around the event. As our departure loomed and my anxiety rose at being trapped in a hurtling, metal cylinder with my demented offspring for seven hours, we determined to be as organised as humanly possible to ease our passage.

We failed at the first hurdle, neglecting to set the alarm clock. Instead of a leisurely breakfast and saunter to the airport, there was a frenetic scuffle and harsh words. I swear I have never forgotten the alarm before.

What unconscious little sabotage was I attempting? The taxi sat outside and clocked up the meter as we completed last minute packing and managed to clothe ourselves. We got outside and realised we wouldn't fit in the car: too many bags, bodies and buggies. The driver had another one despatched and we stood nervously on the kerb, glancing at watches, surrounded by our possessions like a bunch of latter day Joads. All we needed was Granma perched up atop the wagon.

Frayed around the edges before we even left the homestead, we had a family motivational moment in the cab. We could do nothing about the lateness of the hour, but we could be nice to each other for the duration of the trip.

The Elder smiled knowingly, the Missus agreed with a notably strained smile, I broke into the first couple of bars of New York, New York and the Younger smacked me in the gob. Normal service is resumed.

Up at the airport, we rendezvous with six other members of Clan Inlaw. I suffer the trial of filling out the same details on a variety of forms for each of my lot and we bang on through security and immigration. All the staff have taken grumpy pills; it's as if they want you to get on the plane with a sour puss. But I am determined we are to be happy. I tell the Elder if she can't behave I'll have her on the wing for time out. Be happy goddamnit, we're on holidays. "We're not on holidays," she replies, "We're on a plane."

The last time I flew long-haul was in 1998, following 12 months partying through Australia and Asia. The lack of legroom that time was negated by a combination of sleeping tablets and Johnny Walker. Nine years on, and if there were drugs to be had, I'd be stuffing them down the kids' throats. But in fairness to them, they seem to have discovered manners. At least I hope they have, they disappeared off down the back of the plane some time back and I haven't heard a peep from them since. As long as they're not being rude . . .