Flying

I hate flying in an airplane. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. And yet at least once a year I tend to find myself doing it anyway. Not because I want to, but because I do want to experience whatever is on the other side of the plane ride and no one else seems to buy my argument that taking your time to drive to your destination not only creates a nice bonding experience between you and your fellow car-trippers but also allows you to create your own schedule and stop at some great local places you would never see otherwise.

Ugh. Despite my better judgment I’m getting on a plane tomorrow morning with my friend Lauren for a girls’ weekend in Nashville. I’m sure we will have a great time and I know I sound like a total brat complaining since I know a lot of moms who would kill for the chance to get away for 3 days. I’m totally excited to get a break, to sleep, see Nashville, sleep, hang out with Lauren, and especially sleep. But I hate flying. HATE IT!

I’m not afraid of terrorists or emergency landings or strip searches. I’m not even afraid to die. It’s very irrational, but being in a plane gives me intense panic attacks. Every time there is the slightest noise from the landing gear or whenever the plane leans a little bit to one side I am suddenly convinced that there is a dire emergency and the entire plane is going to rip in half and I will be sucked through the engine and ripped to shreds or fall 10,000 feet and splat on the pavement, both very unflattering an uncomfortable ways to die, I imagine. I’m not scared to be dead, I’m afraid of knowing I’m about to die a agonizing death and then having to experience it.

I’m also afraid of leaving Eddie to raise two small children by himself and of leaving my kids without a mom, but this really has nothing to do with flying since I could potentially die any number of other ways. (I sincerely hope you weren’t hoping for a pick-me-up today because this certainly is not it.)

So every time I have to fly my poor husband gets the pleasure of being woken up at 3:00 in the morning for several days in a row by me either in tears saying things like “What if this is our last chance to hold each other?” Or very seriously saying something along the lines of “If you have to raise the kids by yourself I want you to make sure that Nicholas leans how to be chivalrous.” Or “Maybe I should make a video for the kids, just in case.” To his credit, even though I know he thinks I’m ridiculous, he is always very patient with this process and tries to say something reassuring like telling me I need to trust God more. I guess he’s optimistic that the more times I fly the more chances I’ll get to be convinced that I’m totally safe.

But I’ll never be convinced of that no matter how true it might be.

So if I die tomorrow, or today for that matter, these are the things I want for my children:

1. A solid foundation in their faith.
2. Friends and family who will rise to the occasion and help Eddie raise them.
3. A college education
4. The knowledge that I loved them
5. Financial security (Hopefully those hefty life insurance policies we’re paying for will do their job.)
6. Traditions that will be carried on and maybe passed on to their own children
7. Good manners
8. The desire to help others

If they were older I would also hope for fond memories.

Mommy loves you, babies.

I plan to be back Sunday.