“I’m never flying,” Master8 announced as he exited the bathroom this evening. Clearly he’d been using his time on the loo to do some deep thinking.
There are times I think I’ve five little Tracey clones stomping around my ankles – nothing of me seems to have gotten through. But then I’ll see myself reflected in their illogical little faces and I know I’m leaving my mark.
“Why not?” I asked him, although I completely understand his stance on this. I don’t like to fly. It’s up there with I don’t like needles.
I expect to die every time I fly. No ifs. No buts. It’s all over: check my life insurance and tell my wife and kids I love them.
“It’s not safe.”
“You know it’s safer than driving,” I told him, because it’s important to put up a brave front and let them develop their own fears, not take on the encyclopedic sized list of phobias I’ve developed.
“Planes are not safe,” Master8 insisted. “And they know it!”
I almost lunged at him. “What? Are you saying there’s some sort of conspiracy to cover up the number of crashes in the world?” Just as I suspected!
He gave me a look his mother is often found tossing my way. “What?”
“Nothing. Sorry. You were saying?”
“I’m saying planes aren’t safe,” he said, a weary note entering his voice. Seriously, it’s like they channel my wife sometimes.
Again, I reluctantly pushed my own rational fears aside and did my duty as a dad.
“Like I said, mate, they’re safer than driving on our roads. Given the number of planes in the sky, hardly any of them have any problem. And even when they do, it usually ends okay with no ball of flame and no one dying.”
All bollocks, I reckon. And even if there is a hint of truth in it, there’s nothing is going to make me feel better about that two minute plunge to Earth where you’ve all the time in the world to regret not simply watching the guys from Getaway discover the wonders of Bali from the comfort and low altitude of your lounge. You know what I mean, yeah?
But seriously, tonight you’d have thought I worked for the Australia Transport Safety Bureau.
“Planes are safe,” I told him.
“Yeah?” countered Master8. “I don’t think so. Or why else would they call them errorplanes, Dad?”
Say that last sentence out loud: he makes a good point.
Proving he is so my son. No paternity test necessary.
When not over here, Bruce Devereaux hangs out at his Big Family Little Income Facebook Page. Come join us 🙂
”Raising a family on little more than laughs.”