Other people's birthdays and conquering fears

I'll bet you're wondering where I found that nice photo of our fair city.

Well, I took it.

Or, my husband took it. I'd already taken a few, but I was in the back seat and the wing was in my viewfinder. So he snapped some photos from the front seat—his birthday seat of honor.

He turned 40 today. I tried and tried to think of a nifty gift, and then I remembered that I know I certified pilot—a calm, capable, experienced fellow who'd volunteered at my last workplace. I felt out the husband in casual conversation: have you ever been up in one of those little, bitty planes? Ever wanted to? He was gung ho, thought it would be fun, and that sealed the deal. I contacted the pilot privately and the covert planning began.

Except I figured I'd just send my husband on the flight, because the mere thought of being up there in a tiny propeller plane, at the mercy of buffeting winds and unpredictable drafts, was enough to make me hurl. Then I thought, perhaps I'll let Marcus go, too. He'd love it. He's transfixed by planes and helicopters and flying in general. But I realized quickly that would be a disaster, because if that plane went down, there goes my life too, plus or minus an eternity of survivor's guilt. So. Nix that.

But I'd already asked my friend the pilot if he'd take a child, and he was delighted. "Kids are the most fun," he said. The idea was planted. I told him I'd think about it. He told me it would be a shame if my boy missed the ride because "his mother was a chicken."

Well, the gauntlet was thrown. And I, with much hesitation and trepidation, picked it up. And thought many times about throwing it down again. Thank goodness this little idea came together quickly, because since I've learned it would be a reality, I've felt slightly sick. I mean, I've flown before...but in commercial aircraft, the big guys, the ones with phenomenal safety records. And I don't like those trips, either.

The momentous morning came, and somehow, the boy and I had both managed to keep the secret. I told Todd when we were leaving and to be ready. We departed, and as I drove, I remembered the JFK Jr. accident, the recent wreck of a small plane carrying Alaska's former governor and others, the long list of light flights that inexplicably fell from the sky or crashed into mountains or resulted in cannibalism. Fun stuff to consider, whilst you drive to your doom.

We got there, the pilot was waiting, and Todd figured out our scheme (after sharing his slight alarm at the thought that we might be dropping him out of one of these things). We went into the office to pick up necessary headphones and paperwork; I hit the ladies' head and called home to leave a message detailing where we kept the last will and testament. We stepped outside (no excuses there, because the weather was absolutely perfect) and I saw the tiny craft we'd be squeezed into. Wow. Small.

Gary, the pilot, was completely in his element. He showed Todd the plane, the gas tanks, the rudder, all the moving parts. He had already been up in the air earlier that morning, so the machine was checked and tip-top. Without much delay, we were loading Marcus into the back seat, adjusting his headset, and then it was my turn to squeeze my much larger self in beside the child. We buckled up, waited for Todd to climb in and do the same, and then watched Gary go through his checklist and start 'er up.

You taxi just like any other plane... but you feel everything. And you can see the birds that have built nests in the shelter of the runway lights and signs, because you're pretty much on the same level as those birds. You begin moving and speed up just like on a commercial flight, but it doesn't take nearly as much time or speed to lift up into the sky. I was amazed at how quickly we were zooming above the trees. The whole thing was honestly sort of surreal, from the climbing-in moment to the perfect landing. Looking out the window was akin to looking at simulation screens, in that I couldn't quite grasp that we were, indeed, flying over the mall, downtown, stadiums and rivers. It was insane, and great, and scary, and nauseating at the same time. (I forgot to buy Dramamine. I kept the birthday secret, the kid kept the secret, but I forgot to buy motion sickness pills. Don't worry, though—I'm the only one who needs them.)

We all survived. I'm glad I went. It was definitely out of my comfort zone, but Todd loved it and Marcus did too. And I enjoyed it, honestly, except for the last ten minutes when I had to stare at my own thigh to fend off barfing. But other than that, it was awesome. Mostly, I just felt a teensy bit proud of myself, as I climbed out of the plane and hunkered down with head between knees. This little foray into the near sky was not easy for me, as you might have guessed. No regrets, though. (Of course there are no regrets; I'm still here to tell the story.) It was a fun way for our family to ring in Todd's 40th, to round out the summer, to celebrate a glorious August day, and to try something challenging and different.

Still? If it never happens again, I'd be okay with that, too.

Boy, I really stink at this mom thing

Sometimes, I just hope that God isn’t watching me too carefully. (Yeah, I know He is, but just humor me for a minute or two. It makes me feel a bit less guilty.)

It’s Day 5 of my current illness, a strange conglomerate of sore throat, cold, cough, and sinus issues. I am tired, still sick, and generally very irritable. I want to sleep, and sleep some more, but I can’t breathe when I sleep, so it’s often an exercise in frustration and futility. Mostly, I want quiet. And I have an almost-4-year-old who won’t stop talking. So, quiet has not been had.

And today was my talkative darling's Valentine’s Day party at preschool. I had made invitations, he had helped, we’d taped SweetTart hearts to them, we’d gotten fruit and veggies to take into his class, etc. Mostly, I couldn’t wait to drop him off so I could come home and sleep a bit. In silence. Sitting up in the comfy chair so I could take in breath while sleeping. Ahhhhhhhhhh. Doesn’t that sound nice?

Until it all fell into jeopardy; my son told me his stomach hurt this morning. He visited the bathroom upon my recommendation, had success, said he felt better, and voila, we were on our way with bags to preschool. Except. Then his stomach hurt again. Then, as we drove, he wanted to not go in, and to just return home and play.

This is where it gets ugly, folks. This is where I’m hoping some lovely angel was singing to God really loudly and drowning out the honking, sniffling, crabby voice that emerged from my mouth as I had a little “talking to” with my kid:

“Okay, now you understand, if you’re sick, there’s no rowdy playing. If your tummy hurts, you will act like a kid whose tummy hurts, and stay still, and lie on the couch, and NOT jump off the stool 50 times. Because Mommy really needs this time to get things done.”

“Okay, I know. I won’t jump off the stool.”

“That’s right, because sick kids don’t jump off stools. If you’re well enough to play hard, then you’re well enough to go to preschool.”

“Okay, I know.”

We drove to school, every void in the car filled with his happy little voice; then we dropped the things off at school, and I gave him another chance. Still he complained about the tummy. I reminded him again of the stark truth of illness: “Remember, this is not going to be special play time with Mommy. Mommy is still sick too. And Mommy needs to get things done. Okay?”

“Okay.”

We left the school parking lot, on to the library, and I parked and slid our books into the book drop. We started to drive away. And then he blindsided me: “I think I feel well enough to go.”

“Now you’re just playing head games with me. Are you trying to make me angry?” Yes, I really said that to a 3 1/2-year-old. I did. And it gets worse. He said,

“No, Mommy. I can jump off stools now.”

“So what do you want to do?” I asked this, as we were driving in the opposite direction, still not far from the school, but moving away from it. (I didn’t ask it in a very nice voice, I’ll admit.)

“I want to go.”

“Are you SURE?”

“Yes, I want to go.”

“Fine.” I turned onto a side road, into someone’s driveway, redirected the car, and started back in the direction of the school. And then he said,

“Hurry up.”

Well, people, I freaked. I said, “Don’t you ever tell me to hurry up, you ungrateful little child! I don’t ever want to hear those words come out of your mouth, especially after you’ve been playing mind games with me!” Without a moment’s hesitation, my sweet little boy burst into tears, of course, and they rivuleted their way down his soft cheeks, and at first I was righteously indignant and enraged, and then I felt bad. And then, worse. He probably did have a stomachache. It probably did stop aching. Even if it didn’t, I shouldn’t have yelled at him like that. And mostly, I'm ashamed to say, I thought Oh CRAP, what are those teachers going to think when they see his little reddish wet eyes? I almost turned around and made him come home anyway, but the thought of him wailing about missing the party and me being sick and irritable and a wretch in general was too much to bear. We drove back to school, and I was calm by then: I gave him one last option out in case he was still feeling ill. But the poor kid was probably terrified at the thought of being home alone with me—he opted to go in. So I walked him in.

And I drove home, once again wondering what in the world God was thinking when he gave me this innocent little soul to ruin and rankle. Good grief, I’m not cut out for this.

There, I’ve confessed my ugly moment for today. If there are more to come, I’ll confess them in private and spare you the pain of bearing witness.

The worst part is that now, I feel too awful to nap.

No good time for a malady

I was all prepared to write a rant of sorts about the overdone nature of the modern kid’s birthday. However. You’ve been spared said rant, because we’ve had to postpone our boy’s big birthday celebration. The day before the festivities, as preparations were in high gear, the child had the nerve to spike a fever out of the blue.

And it suddenly put everything in perspective. Nothing else in your life is good when someone you love—especially your child—isn’t well. Or, perhaps I should say that good things still abound, but you can’t savor them the way you’d like to, because you’re all wrapped up in the wellness issue.

I have some ladies in my life, and whenever I see them, I am reminded of this perspective lesson. These women face the daily battle of caring for and supporting a daughter who is ill. And we’re not just talking flu or virus here, people—we’re talking illnesses that require miracles to disappear.

In one case, the daughter is older, a woman in her own right…but still in tremendous need because of the health-related struggles she faces. Another daughter is college-aged, a child-woman. Yet another is a girl, nearly a teen in some ways but in many ways still very much a completely dependent little child. And the moms of these gals are pretty amazing. They inspire me and others around them—with their tirelessness, their determination, sometimes with their unending faith in God and his healing powers, and at other times in their sheer will to get through each situation. In every case, these ladies inspire me to just be thankful, to count blessings, to look back and focus on wonderful times instead of zeroing in on the far less numerous hard times. And it’s not just the moms who inspire; dads too, even entire families, are all team members in this unceasing mission to love a loved one.

So, we’ll celebrate the birthday a week later, assuming the boy is up to the challenge with no fever in sight. And through the second housecleaning, the second round of shopping, the flurry of guests and cake and wrapping paper that follow, I will thank God: I’ll try to remember to be grateful that this fever, already passing today, was just that: passing. It was not a part of everyday existence. It was something to get through in a couple of days, not a challenge to endure for months, years, perhaps a lifetime. It was a hiccup in the life of a healthy kid.

Which is pretty darned small, when you consider the alternatives.

Random thoughts

I've managed to contract the kid's bug, in some weird mutated form, so I'm short on insightful thoughts about pretty much anything right now. Here's what I've been thinking about instead:

Why do we humans have so many different and frequently disgusting fluids, solids, and forms of mucus exiting our bodies at all times? I've been presented with some nasty, odd-colored nasal discharges from my son these past couple of days, and that's just the tip of the iceberg as far as unsavory discharges, from him or from anyone else. Makes you wonder how that seemed like a good idea when we were being formed on the sixth day and all that. This is definitely a question I'll have for the Maker someday...

Thinking about mucus reminds me of all these hip, happening new viruses on the market, like MRSA; is there another Biosphere experiment in the works anywhere? Maybe they'll hold a lottery for the next lucky dwellers—let me know if you hear anything...

Speaking of living in a bubble, what will our morally upstanding media (cough, cough) do if Hollywood suddenly produces a successful teen star who miraculously marches into adulthood still sober, clean of drugs, free of a police record, and without an eating disorder? Oh, wait—that person will have been kicked to the curb long before he/she reaches adulthood. Too boring.

And since we're talking about the media, how must a soldier or fresh veteran feel after watching a broadcast of the news and finding that the war is usually not the top story? That's a slap in the face, eh? Thanks for fighting--just get in line behind Britney and her kids and the parenting coach, okay? What's that, you're handicapped and you need a chair? Geesh--you people sure are demanding.

Well, I can see I'm on my way to a rather corrosive little diatribe, so I'll stop now. In case there's any doubt, I support our troops and what they are doing. And I definitely feel most days as if Americans in general are pretty spoiled and rather superficial—not excluding me. But that's a post for another day.

Send us healing thoughts, please! Thanks.