I’m pretty sure my plane is going to crash, 50% sure at least. If my plane doesn’t crash, there is a 50% chance that something terrible will happen to my kids while I’m gone. These aren’t very good odds.
I didn’t use to be this way. I used to fly every week for work, getting a cab at my house at 6:00 am for my 6:30 am flight and it was about as scary as going for a swim wearing a life jacket with a dozen life guards watching.
But, since I’ve had these babies, I feel different.
I play out scenarios in my mind of getting the call and how it would feel and what would happen next.
I try to stop that.
As soon as I can.
When I was young and single and a consultant on the road, I asked my sister with small kids to fly out to my client site for a free visit. She made a big deal about the flight and how scary it would be and who would raise her small kids if something would happen to her?
And I was judgmental, a little. I thought, oh my, you can’t live like that, being scared of everything.
OK, sister, I take that back.
A Mom can be scarred.
But, if I really, objectively, wanted to be safer, I would be better off driving less or eating healthier foods than avoiding planes. So, I do like my sister did, I get on the plane anyway.
And, as you can see by photo evidence of the Spoonbridge and Cherry at the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden, the plane didn’t crash. And there haven’t been any phone calls with bad news either.
(And sister, remember when my brothers and I would try to get you and your husband to get a babysitter so you could go out drinking late and night with us and I gave you a hard time for staying home because I didn’t realize that babies don’t sleep in? They don’t EVER, EVER, EVER sleep in, not until they are thirteen? I take that back, too.)
To my sister, I’m sorry I was such a dork. To my girls, I miss you and I love you. I’m 100% sure of that.