Learning to Fly

The title is not metaphorical.

I do not like to fly. Period. I can think of a thousand things that I would rather do than get my bum on an airplane – including having cavities drilled, cleaning a very dirty bathroom, and bathing-suit shopping. Repeatedly. I don’t mind check-in, or going through security, or even waiting to board. Losing luggage is a pain (the boys’ car-seats were misplaced during our vacation last week. Helpful, eh?), but I can deal with it. I don’t really even mind bring in the air. Seriously. Once the plane is air-born, and leveled-off to cruise, I’m okay. And I love the feeling of landing. It’s the anticipation of being up in air that gets to me. My tummy hurts, my extremities ache, I can’t stop my limbs from moving. Knowing that once I get on that plane, in my seat and buckled-up, I am putting my life (and by extension my boys’ lives) completely in the hands of people that I have never met – the pilots, the flight attendants, the maintenance crews, the TSA. No pressure. I won’t pretend that it’s not a control issue. It is. Would I feel better if I was flying the plane myself? Maybe (though wouldn’t that be a disaster for all the other passengers?!). Truthfully, it’s my own brain that’s the problem. If I could stem the flow of all the thoughts of what could possibly go wrong in the air, and learn to enjoy the incredible feeling of being aloft, flying would be fun.

Incidentally, Pierre isn’t a big fan of flying either, but not for fear. Imagine folding six-feet, five-inches of hunky man into a cramped, coach seat. Yeah.

I used to have full-blown panic attacks on take-off. The fear developed suddenly. One flight I was just fine, the next hyperventilation and tears. Just like that. A switch that turned-on. And I’ve flown a lot. I worked for a camp where we flew kids across Canada and back. I lived in England for a year and traveled across the pond three times return. And when Pierre lived in San Diego for the first six months of our marriage, I made the voyage alone four times. It was worth it.

I’ve gotten better, a lot better. I haven’t had a panic attack in awhile, and during my last few flights, I was able to relax, look out the window on take-off, read my book, watch a movie with my little pilots.  And no, it isn’t because I’ve taken up drinking mid-flight.

I have two reasons for why: Benjamin and Nicholas. I do not want my boys to be afraid to fly. I don’t want them to experience the crippling fear that I have felt. And I want to be able to go places, and see things with my family. To do that, I am going to have to fly.

The boys love flying. For them, each moment of the experience is a grand adventure. They love watching the planes at the gate as we wait to board.  They love seeing the ground fall away as the plane soars into the air.  They love being above the clouds. They love coming in to land, feeling the bump as the wheels touch-down. Going to the restroom on a plane is the be-all and end-all to a four year-old! And let’s face it, they love having full access to the IPad to keep busy.  During our return flight from Orlando Benjamin drew a picture, which he proudly presented to the pilot as we deplaned. He was awarded with a big smile and thank you from the cockpit crew.

Ben and me on a flight a few years ago.

My dad told me once that I just had to make the choice to get on the plane or not. And if I make the choice to get on, I have to let the rest go. I’m learning to do that.

Being a parent means being brave even when you don’t feel brave. I wish that I could say that I’ve become braver about flying, but I don’t think that’s it at all. Instead, I think that I just have something new to focus on. Ben and Nicholas. Watching them, and being excited with them, stems the scary thoughts. Seeing their smiles on take-off, listening to their excited “wooooos” when we hit turbulence, as if we are on a great, big, flying roller-coaster. Telling them for the millionth time to quit kicking the back of the seat in front of them, or to stop playing with the tray table. They keep me busy.

I still can’t quite rationalize the thought that Pierre and I would never put our boys in a situation that would knowingly hurt them, so how can I be afraid to fly – but, at least the boys give me something else to think about. The fear is still there, but the panic is gone. Maybe in that way Benjamin and Nicholas really are making me braver. 

So, I’m learning to fly. My boys are teaching me how.

xo Naomi