It’s 01:30 and I’m wide awake. Not because I’m not tired (I have a toddler. I will be tired from now until eternity), but because my brain won’t switch off. My brain won’t switch off because it’s contemplating the short flight I’ll have to endure with my family for our impending holidays.
It’s been a while since I’ve flown. And more than that, it’s been a while since I’ve flown with my husband who is also a terrible flyer. And of course, we’ve never flown with our ‘energetic’ 15 month old daughter.
If I had a pound for every time someone told me that flying is the safest form of transport, I wouldn’t need to worry about money again.
I wish I didn’t suffer from this crippling fear which is currently causing me to lie on my back like an upside down turtle holding its knees to its chest (do turtles have knees??).
What is it I’m so afraid of? Well, it’s the plane going down and having to look at my loved ones knowing we were all about to die in a horrific way. That’s the bottom line. I can’t tell my husband this though, or we’ll end up canceling another trip.
I message my friend and tell her I’ve got the flying sweats again. She’s a seasoned traveller. I flew with her from NYC – LON and she SLEPT through take off. Unbelievable. And yet also reassuring.
Luckily, she’s flying with us on this trip. She’ll have a much-needed no-nonsense, straight forward attitude which we’ll need to get through the ordeal.
It’s almost 2am and I need to find some other strange position in which to cradle myself. As I reach the cusp of sleep, my daughter will wake me up for a feed and a cuddle and after I put her down, I’ll be ready to start the cycle again.