I still haven't booked our holiday. Everytime I get a step closer I can't do it. The truth is, I'm terrified of flying again.
In the past, I've forced myself to do it with a combination of "rational" thinking and booze. I've always been able to do enough of the "when your number's up..." and "more chance of winning the lottery..." mantra-ing to get me to the departure gate on time. But now I'm not just thinking about me. I'm thinking about my beautiful baby boy and the thought of anything happening to him and not being able to protect him is nothing less than blood-curdling.
Again, the rational part of my brain kicks in: he travels in the car, he travels on the tube, he walks along the road (albeit in my vice-like, hand-holding grip). I know that there is more chance of a plane landing on our house than us being involved in a fatal, mid-air collision on a Sunday afternoon over Southern France, caused by the air traffic control man's inability to do his job whilst eating cheese and watching football (there are endless scenarios - we've also survived the impact but been eaten alive by Mediterranean sharks, for example).
I don't want to give in to my fear and spend countless hours stuck on (infinitely more dangerous) cross-Europe coaches. I've been to many places in the world (and survived) and I want Eliott to share the same sense of wonder, adventure and experience that comes with international travel.
I also (desperately) need a week on the beach and if today's weather is anything to go by I'm not going to have much luck in Brighton or Bognor.
Perhaps if I don't dream about an air disaster tonight I should take it as a sign that we will make it to the Balearics and back in one piece.
And that, my friends, is irrational thinking at its very best.
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Mother, journalist, perpetual teenager - in that order.
1 comment:
I hate flying too, but I did it with our own Baby E when she was just three months old and - despite all the added fears you mention - it was fine. I was so distracted by her (and her fabulous behaviour, which consisted mostly of sleeping and smiling at the attendants) that I quite forgot to make up outlandish scenarios (did that pilot look a little depressed?) and satisfy all my silly superstitions (watch safety film; ensure there is a lifejacket under seat).
However, as a sympathetic phobic, I know none of the above will make any difference at all, so - have you considered Eurostar to Paris, then TGV to Avignon, Nice etc? Still great weather, your feet won't leave the ground once and E can run up and down the aisles all he wants.
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