Confession Time: Being married to a fighter pilot is hard and scary and stressful. I wish it on no one. My hair was falling out during the last deployment. Yes, my hair. That, my friends, is stress. Stress. Headaches. Yep. Stress. Itchy skin. Eye twitching. Freaking out stress anxiety blehhhh yuck. Stress.
Every time they do their job — taking off and landing on the ship — they are putting themselves at a great deal of risk. They can train and train but the conditions at the ship at night, in high seas, landing on a tiny strip in the middle of the pure black night is dangerous. The difference between a safe landing and crashing into the back of the ship is mere feet. Feet! When they train during the day in the middle of the afternoon doing ‘routine missions’ it is dangerous. You have to have a training qualification just be to able to sit in the seat! Even the ejection seat is dangerous! Now, that is the every day stuff. Not flying missions over country, dropping ordinance, being shot at, flying 10+ hour missions in the middle of the night. I won’t even discuss the master reset mentality my husband has after flying the hunk o junk Tomcat that used to have major failures every time he took off or the engine fire and near-miss out of control plummet his superhornet did straight for the ground. No, I won’t even GO there…..
I will NOT raise another aviator. No. Not. Ever. It is bad enough to be married to it. Can’t imagine being mom to it.
I have always joked that my son was NOT allowed to grow up to be an aviator. Instead, he may grow up to be a circus clown. Evan was an infant at the start of the Iraq war. Already facing my own mortality due to a very tumultuous birthing experience, four of our friends died in a mid-air collision when Evan was only two months old. My heart was crushed totally flat. The rug was pulled out from under my entire foundation of comfort. Emotionally, I was hanging on by a string. A frayed string, at that. I was NOT ready to ship my husband to be shot at a matter of months later. Amid protests against the war, I decided it was final — my sweet baby boy would do something SAFE that people LOVE, APPRECIATE, COMPENSATE WELL, NOT COMPLAIN ABOUT BEING TOO LOUD AND INTERRUPTING THEIR GOLF GAME! Yes, it will be perfect. My Evan will be a circus clown. I had enough fear and controversy in my life. Sounds like a fabulous plan to me at least.
Not so much to my son.
He does not want to be a circus clown. At all. As much as I try to explain how fun it would be. I was able to convince him to be a chicken for Halloween when he was four with backwards logic but that is the last time I was successful in talking him into something he did not think of first. He is just as stubborn as his mama. He will NOT be convinced about this circus clown thing. He says I ‘harass him all the time’ to be a circus clown. He wants to be a pilot or an army man. That is what he wants.
Hmmmm….
What to do? Well, taking him to the birthplace of aviation probably didn’t help my plea in the matter. It WAS a gorgeous day and watching him pretend to take off at the very spot of Orville and Wilbur’s first 4 flights was quite entertaining.
still. Not ready to be the wife and MOTHER of aviators. NOT.
my specialty – super duper wide shots
the lensbaby version…. love that amazing creation….
and he rotates at 20 knots!!! go Evan go!!!
come ON. He looks exactly like a circus enthusiast here….
sigh.
