Oh, we’re on the plane.
I would describe my fear of flying as “legendary” among those who know me, except that word “legendary” implies some amount of myth, and in my case it’s all true. I have flown dozens of time by now, probably close to a hundred times. I remember flying to my grandparents’ house as a small child, and I don’t remember ever not being afraid.
It defies all reason. I know it’s safe. I harbor no secret conspiracy theories on this subject. If I love you, and you have to go somewhere, I would much rather you fly.
In 2005, a year heavy with weddings and parental illness as well as our big trip to Thailand, I flew 18 times. You’d think I would have been totally desensitized by the end of that year, but I was a wreck, worse than ever. The old coffee smell of the cabin, the familiar bells, the odd, stale air, the clicks and whirrs of the engine…it’s a big pavlovian nightmare, and all my logical thinking processes turn off so that I’m free to panic.
I dream of just giving it up, but it’s not feasible. Once off the plane, I can’t wait to travel and seeing people I love is always worth it. Nowadays I get to fly with Kurt, who is awed and delighted by air travel, and I get to be the one to tell him it’s going to be okay. Plus, alcohol helps.
Yesterday was not our best travel day ever.
Wait at U.S./Canadian border: 2 hours 32 minutes.
Total door to door travel time from Victoria to Seattle, with obligatory diaper change stop: 10 hours 35 minutes.
In fact, we missed seeing my brother. That kinda sucked. The kids were relatively good, considering. Motel beds to jump on and a new bath tub to splash in. They’re easy to please.
Two more hours to Grandparents and their lovely house! Maria will give them kisses (she does that now!) and Kurt will test all their ceiling fans and light switches.