The Case of The Vanishing Band-Aids

I was sitting in the nursery with The Girl this afternoon, reading books and looking through her vast stock pile of hand-me-downs for next season’s selections, when GC came waltzing in.  “WHOSDISBIGGYGIRL???!!!” he yelled in her face, as she winced and cracked a smile.  He laid down on the carpet, pulled his feet toward his body and tapped his heels on the floor.  As he did, the day’s war wounds came into focus.  In a skirmish for a ball that he’d allegedly had first, he had been bested by a girl who left him scraped and humiliated.  His right knee gleamed pink and red where it met the pavement and it occurred to me that when I picked him up from school, the wound was dressed.

“What happened to your Band-Aids,” I asked?

“I took them off,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.  “I didn’t need them anymore.  My knee feels better.”

“I see…  Did you throw them in the garbage, then?”

He looked away from me, thoughtfully directing his gaze out the window.

“Yeah.  I did.”

“Are you sure?”

His tongue prodded the inside of his cheek as he struggled to maintain his integrity.

“I need to go downstairs and check on the dog,” he said suddenly, his eyes twinkling.

I pursed my lips, raised one eyebrow and, feeling that I had given sufficient nonverbal cueing I was not convinced, told him to go ahead.  He raced out the door and bounded down the stairs, making a thunderous noise equivalent to a herd of bison rambling across the plain.

“Don’t come downstairs!” he called from the landing, “Don’t come downstairs until I tell you!”

Not Again!

Do you ever feel like you can’t win for losing?  I feel this way a lot, and it usually has to do with my oldest son.  But it’s not because of anything that he does.  It’s because of what’s done on his behalf in school.

As many of you might remember, we made a very difficult decision last year.  We decided to remove him from his home school across the street and send him to a different school across town because that school offered a full spectrum of special education services which our home school did not.  At almost every IEP meeting we’d had, at some point in the meeting, it was implied that perhaps The Mayor could be more successful in a different placement.  And we finally went along with it.

Here’s the good news: His special educator is awesome.  He’s been in special ed for over 30 years, doing different types of work within the field.  He loves the kids.  He’s dedicated to them.  He spends almost the entire school day with them, a very unusual situation in our experience.  He’s apart from them for only 45 minutes of the day.  He even eats lunch with them.  I know already that he is fully trustworthy, that he has The Mayor’s best interests at heart, first and foremost.  All that said, I was really confused about just one thing.  He kept mentioning, in passing and casually, that after a few weeks, we would see if the inclusive classroom was working out.  You see, The Mayor spends only a portion of his day in the self-contained class with Mr. W and other kids with special needs.  The other portion of the day finds him included in a general education classroom where there is a general ed. teacher and an inclusion teacher.  The inclusion teacher is there to facilitate the successful inclusion of students with an IEP.  Of course, we want The Mayor to spend some of his day there.  Up until now, he’s been in an inclusive class all day long.  Which is why I just couldn’t figure out the hints about revisiting the placement.  Until tonight.

Tonight was the school’s open house.  As I arrived, I was happy to see cars lining the streets and a crowd shuffling through the school.  I went straight to Mr. W’s room and, there, had a very pleasant and productive conversation.  We talked about The Mayor.  We talked about the class.  We talked about his experience in special ed.  When we had covered everything we needed to cover, I mentioned that I would also like to meet The Mayor’s general ed. and inclusion teachers.  Mr. W offered to take me to their classroom.

As we walked through the door, I think it’s fair to say, they both seemed surprised to see us.  Whatever the reason for that, my impression was not greatly improved as time progressed.  Mr. W introduced the three of us and I waited for the typical teacher introduction to conversation: “Your son is so…  We’re so happy to have him…  The other kids love him…”  Anything.  But what I got was silence.  After we were introduced, they both just looked back and forth from me to Mr. W, waiting, appearing unsure as to why we might have come into the room.  And here’s how it went:

Me: “It seems like we’re off to a bit of a rocky start this year”

Gen Ed and Inclusion: blank stares

Me: “What do you think?”

Gen Ed: “I don’t understand what the question is.”

Me: “Well, it seems that The Mayor has been disruptive in class…”

Gen Ed and inclusion: blank stares

Me: “So what can we do going forward to improve the situation?”

Gen Ed: “Well, I assessed him.”

Me: “You assessed him for…?”

Gen Ed: “Spelling.  And he could not complete the assessment, so I don’t know how to place him in a reading group.”

Me: “Can you tell me a little about the assessment?”

Gen Ed: “It’s for spelling.”

Me: “How do you administer the assessment?  Do you speak the word, and he replies aloud?”

Gen Ed: “No, he has to spell it.”

Me: “Can he speak it?”

Gen Ed: “He has to write it.”

Inclusion: “We have the sample.  It’s just scribbles.”

Me: “Okay.  Well, The Mayor can’t write yet.”

Mr. W: (mentions something about the fact that The Mayor can write only his name)

Me: “Can you adapt the assessment for him? Can he type?”

Inclusion: “What did he do at his other school?”

Me: “He was allowed to type.”

Inclusion: “Okay…  I guess he could type.”

First and least maddening, if you can believe that, The Mayor has an IEP on file at his school.  It is a federally mandated legal document that outlines exactly what kind of adaptations and accommodations he requires in order to receive a “free and appropriate education.”  In that document, there is a section entitled “Instructional and Testing Accommodations.”  Under that heading, one could easily be apprised of the fact that, by law, The Mayor is entitled to some or all of the following accommodations during testing, depending upon the level of need:

1. Assistance with directions, simplifying, clarifying, written directions to accompany oral directions

2. Large diameter pencil, special pencil or pencil grip

3. Flexible schedule, breaks during tests, multiple test sessions or change in order of subtests

4. Group size

5. Respond by word processor, typewriter or brailler.

Second, and far and away the most infuriating thing I have ever had to face in a public school, I had to tell the INCLUSION TEACHER that when you give a child a spelling test, and he scribbles, he requires accommodations.  Bold, capital letters, underlined and in italics are not enough to convey my shock and anger.

Imagine this.  You find yourself in classroom full of people in your same major, astrophysics.  You are all being tested, at the beginning of a semester, in order to determine which small groups you will be divided into for study.  Your professor begins to ask each of you, individually, to convey the principles of your field of study; a task for which you are duly prepared.  But suddenly you realize, you are required to respond in Swahili.  No ones asks you if you speak Swahili.  No one is aware of your previous academic records which reveal that you speak Spanish.  The professor comes to you, and begins to quiz you.  He asks the first question and waits for your reply.  When you say nothing, he simply asks another question.  You give an answer in Spanish, which he ignores, and poses another question.  You continue this way for the entire duration of the test until you have come to the end, frustrated and unable to demonstrate your accumulated knowledge of astrophysics simply because you do not speak Swahili.  Because of this, the professor does not include you in a group.  It is presumed that you are unable to learn about astrophysics.  And you have failed.

If you knew my son, your heart would be breaking like mine was tonight.  The thought of him sitting at a table, confused and frustrated, while a teacher forced him to put something on the paper, even if it was meaningless… I can’t come up with any word other than cruel.  That is to say nothing of the fact that this is his first full week in a new school, with new classmates, new teachers and, of course, a new aid.  His aid didn’t show up the first day.  So he’s had a bunch of different people hanging out with him in the interim.  His full-time aid started today.  But that’s a whole other story, you know.

It feels like getting punched in the gut over and over and over and over again.  And just when you think you’ve been punched for the last time, you stand up and take one square in the jaw.  I’m tired of writing about it.  I’d like to write about something else.  Really, I would.

Good To The Last Drop (Or So I’ve Heard)

For many years, I didn’t drink coffee at all.  When I was about 18, I experienced heart palpitations that led my doctors to advise me to cut caffeine from my diet.  Since I had never drunk coffee on a regular basis to that point, it wasn’t such a big deal.  I would have the occasional cup of decaf after dinner; the occasional espresso concoction from Starbucks.  But, eventually,  I started to like the stuff.  And the heart palpitations had waned.  I experienced them only a few times a year.  So I felt at liberty to have a little more caffeine.  And a little more.  And a little more.  Soon, or more to the point, after I weaned my second child from breast milk, I got into a pretty regular habit of brewing up that morning coffee.

At that point in my life, mornings had changed from a lazy segue to daylight into a frenzied series of steps that culminated in my oldest son stepping onto the school bus.  Never mind the fact that there was a baby hanging off my hip.  There was a school day for which to prepare.  Preschool is serious business.  But because three-year-olds are not known to be the most adept stylists, The Mayor’s grooming rituals were executed by me.  I spent most mornings after breakfast wiping his face, combing his hair, wetting it down, tucking his shirt in, tucking it in again, and tucking it in once more before giving up.  We would pack his backpack with his communication notebook, talk about what a good boy he was going to be and walk to the cul-de-sac, with little brother in the stroller, to wait for the bus to arrive.  And off he went.  As the giant yellow bus pulled away, all I could see, in the third window from the front, was a little dome of blond hair, bobbing up and down to the rhythm of the revving engine.

I thought, at that time, that my mornings were hectic.  I realize now that I didn’t know the definition of the word hectic.  Now, my mornings are hectic.  The Girl wakes at 5:00 to nurse.  If I’m super-duper lucky, The Mayor doesn’t wake up while she’s nursing, and the house remains quiet enough for me to nurse her and put her back down in her crib for another two hours of sleep.  More likely, as soon as I get her in her crib and return to my bed, I will hear the click-click-creak of a bedroom door across the hall and the stomp-stomp-stomp-stomp of a little boy’s feet, fresh from slumber, on the wood floor.  When The Mayor wakes up, he takes on the physical mannerisms of a drunken old man.  Arms flailing, he sways and stumbles wildly from his bed directly into our room where he emerges, blinking, wild-haired and confused.  I half expect him, one of these days, to say, “What the hell happened last night?!”

Once The Mayor is up, GC will be shortly behind him.  The Mayor will be set up with his breakfast, quietly watching a cartoon and minding his own business.  GC will enter the family room, take note of which cartoon is currently playing, and immediately complain that it is not the cartoon he assumed would be airing upon his arrival.  Also, he will question where his breakfast is, as if I should have anticipated his waking and prepared a selection of pastries just in case.  He is inconvenienced by the fact that his needs have not been met in advance of their existence.  I tell him that it will be his turn to pick a cartoon next, and if he expects to eat something, he ought to reconsider his tone.  I say it just like that.  Honestly.  I have never asked him if his arms are broken or if he believes that the tv will explode after The Mayor’s cartoon is over**.

It is around this time of the morning that the coffee machine beeps and my heart skips a beat (not related to the aforementioned palpitations).  I take stock of the scene: The Mayor still has food on his plate and juice in his cup.  GC has begun to eat his breakfast and is focused on a Lego project half-finished from the day before.  The Girl is sleeping peacefully.  This should be a good time to pour a hot cup of coffee and be able to enjoy it.  So I risk it.  I pick a mug from the cupboard, fill it, and mix in the half and half.  I put the cup to my lips and take that first glorious sip.

If the stars align, I’ll get to drink about half of it while it’s still hot.  But it’s a safe bet that I’ll be interrupted during that very first sip in one of the following ways:

1. The Girl wakes up with what can only be described as a stomach churning odor wafting from her pajamas.  The odor is just what you think it is, and the clean up involved requires precision, agility, speed and focus.  If you have ever tried to change the diaper of a nine-month-old, desperately grabbing at her own feet and twisting her body back and forth as you struggle to keep her, and her changing pad, clean,  you know why this means I’ll be drinking my coffee not-so-hot.  I’m not going to go into details this early in the morning.

2. The Mayor rounds the corner of the kitchen with a DVD - scratched beyond recognition – in his hands. “Watch this one?” he asks.  And though I know what is about to unfold, I put my coffee down and follow him into the family room anyway.  I open the cabinet brimming with DVDs and select one of his favorites.  He looks past me, pointing to another DVD and says, “This one?”  I replace the one I chose and pull the one for which he has asked.  No sooner is the title visible then he points to another DVD and says, “Watch this one?” We go on like that for a while, possibly even getting one started up before he decides it, too, is unacceptable, until he is finally settled on a selection.  And I shuffle back to the kitchen for my lukewarm cuppa’.

3. GC comes to a realization that requires my immediate attention.

A couple of weeks ago, he was hunting his character book, a binder full of drawings he has organized in plastic sleeves.  He came running into the room, exclaiming, “Momma!  Where is my character book?  You know.  The one with all the characters in the plastic pages that we got at um… um…  Walgreens?  It’s not on the play table.  It’s not in my room.  It’s not in the attic, either!”

Wow.  He looked in the attic?

“Well, GC, maybe it’s in your closet.  Did you look there?”

“Nope.  It’s not in my closet.  One time, I was looking in there for something, and I looked down, and I looked up, and I know my character book was not in there.”

“Hmm…  Maybe it’s under the play table.  Did you look under the play table?”

“Oh!  Maybe you’re right! I haven’t been under there in years!”

And off he went to explore the gaping depths under the play table.  Alas… it was not there.

My coffee sat on the counter,  steam dissipating, smelling of energy and alertness.  But my assistance was required in the case of the missing character book; a case which, to this very day, remains unsolved.  So here I sit, drinking coffee.  Cold.  I’ll let you know when we find the book.

**Really, though, I have.

The Last Day of School

My head is pounding, my eyes are bloodshot and my nose is running.  All this because, as much as I tried, I couldn’t stop myself from crying.

Today was The Mayor’s last day of first grade.  They were only in school for about two hours, but it was just long enough for all of the kids to say good bye.

As we walked in this morning, kids were running, skipping and jumping, unable to contain their excitement.  They were all shouting to each other, “See you at the pool! Have a good summer!  See you next year…”  As we walked along the front of the building, kids came up to us left and right.  “Hi (The Mayor)!”  they said, “See you next year!”  That almost did me in, but I held on, at least for the drop-off.

When I came back to get him two hours later, and the lawn of the school was crowded with parents and children, many of them gathering for pictures and making plans to see each other over the summer, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it.

I walked to The Mayor’s class, all of them sitting on a low wall waiting for their parents, and was stopped by one of his old teachers.  “He’s not coming back here next year, is he?” she said.  And that was it.  I couldn’t even hold on for a second.  The tears came.

No.  He’s not going back next year.  But it’s not because we’re moving.  It’s not because we decided on private school instead.  It’s because they don’t have the resources he needs in that building.  That school, 100 yards from our front door, hasn’t provided the things that will best serve him as a student.  And so after three years of asking, three years of pleading, three years of sometimes fighting…  He’s going to a school on the other side of town.

We will drive him there and we will pick him up, and he won’t go to school with any of his neighbors.  He’ll go to school with kids from that part of Norfolk, or kids from other parts of Norfolk who need to be in the same classroom he does.

It was a gut-wrenching decision.  I sat in the IEP (individualized education plan) meeting with his teachers and cried.  And some of them cried, too.  And today, when we had to say good bye, we cried again.

When I ask for him to be educated at his home school, I am asking for more.  I know that.  He needs more than his typically-developing peers do in order to be successful at that school.  But it’s hard for me to be okay with moving him when I understand that there are over 140 kids at that school who aren’t in the school’s home area; intradistrcit transfers who get to go there because someone let them in.  But not my son.  He lives across the street, and he doesn’t get to go there.

The school he will attend in the fall has a special educator who is credentialed to teach him and kids like him.  It has more aids for the special education students, and he will still spend the better portion of his day with his typically-developing peers, as stipulated by his IEP.  But most importantly, he’ll get the specialized instruction that he needs in order to learn.  He can’t move as fast as the other kids.  He needs someone who can slow down and move at his pace, and to be in a class where the other kids are moving at that pace, too.

I know that this is what he needs now.  It’s just that I wanted it here.  I wanted it in his neoghborhood school; the school he walks to with all the other kids in the neighborhood.  But they won’t give it.

This is one of those days where all I can do is give it up to God and pray that I’m doing the right thing.  We’ve had a lot of those days in The Mayor’s life.  It never gets easier.  We’ll start over next year and we’ll see how it goes, and we’ll hope that we chose correctly.

Until then, I guess we’ll see you at the pool…

Apologies Not Necessary

“I’m not in Toronto (anymore), so I’m tired of hearing about all that,” said Burnett, who fell to 0-4 in eight starts against the Red Sox as a Yankee after his team lost, 11-6, on Wednesday night at Yankee Stadium. “That’s just retarded. If anything was different I made pitches when I was with Toronto, and I didn’t make pitches tonight. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

-A.J. Burnett, New York Yankees pitcher

I know that when AJ Burnett used the word “retarded,” he wasn’t making a direct reference to my son, who has Down syndrome. What he meant when he used that word was the exact thing he said immediately following. He meant, “ridiculous.” He meant it didn’t make any sense. He meant it was clear to everyone that making comparisons of that kind yielded no real information. So why couldn’t he have just said that? Well, I think that answer is clear, too.

Unfortunately it doesn’t matter what Mr. Burnett meant because he doesn’t get the opportunity to explain to the millions of people who heard him (or read about it) that his intention was not to denigrate people with developmental disabilities. They heard him, his words reinforced a stereotype, then they changed the channel.

Even if AJ Burnett apologizes for what he said, it’s something like a newspaper printing a retraction. The damage is done. I don’t want an apology from him. I want him to stop using the word. I want him, and every other celebrity who bears the burden of public exposure, to consider their words more carefully. I’m sure that each of them wishes they didn’t have to be judged by their public. But guess what: When you signed that $82.5 million contract, Mr. Burnett, that was part of the deal. And I don’t think you hesitated – not for one blessed second – to sign on the dotted line because you were unsure of your willingness to talk to the cameras. You can bemoan your position as a public figure all you want, and tell me it’s not fair that any more should be expected of you than anyone else. But I can say, for my part, that I don’t expect anything more from you than I expect from anyone else. I expect you to treat your fellow man with respect and dignity. I expect you to be humbled at the gift of your talent and strive to use it to bring about something good. And I expect you to have bad days.

But here’s the thing… As it is, my son will have a hard enough time making his way in the world. Already, at the age of seven, we have spent more time (and, frankly, more money) fighting for his rights than the parent of a typically-developing child would have had to spend. In order for him to grow up to be an included, loved and appreciated member of his community, he must be viewed as your equal. And when you use the word “retarded,” in the manner in which you did, you knock him down a peg. Every single time.

When we, as a society, continue to allow the word to be used as an insult, we marginalize the people to whom it refers. People with developmental disabilities are worthy of your consideration. It’s not about being politically correct. It’s about being morally correct. It’s about refusing to be lazy with your language and taking the time to consider how what you say might have an impact far beyond the people to whom you’re speaking.

Please don’t bother to apologize. Instead, get in front of a camera, pledge to stop using the word and ask your fans to do the same.

Planning Ahead

I could do no better this week than to recount a brief conversation I had with my middle child the other night.  The thing I find especially humorous about our interactions is his grasp of more advanced concepts as considered through the prism of a five-year-old brain.  It both amuses and amazes me that he has a solid vision for the kind of family he wants to have.  It is interesting, though, that a partner is rarely mentioned.  Though he has expressed an interest in one or two little girls (I actually once found him curled up under the covers of his own bed with one of them – a story for another post), his future self appears to be a single dad with three little boys.

This is a child who, though generally cautious, is very sure of himself.  That might be a biologically-assured trait for him.  We do our best, nonetheless, to give him every opportunity to build is confidence in an experiential way.  It has come back to bite us once or twice.  In the end, though, I believe it will be crucial to his success.  And he will be a success.  Just ask him…

Here’s how it went:

GC:  I don’t want to be a daddy when I grow up.  I want to be an illustrator.

My Husband: You don’t want to have any kids?

GC:  WHAT kids?

Me:  Your own family.  When you grow up.  You know, daddy isn’t just a daddy.  He’s a pilot, too.

GC:  I want to be a daddy and a pilot.  Being a pilot is a COOL job.

Me:  (heaving a mental sigh) Being a pilot is a cool job.

GC:  I’m going to have three children.  All boys.

Me:  Oh, yeah?

GC:  Yeah.  Their names are going to be Charlie Walgren, um….  Wait.  My name will still be Zaletski.  So he will be Charlie Zaletski.

Me:  Okay. Charlie.

GC:  Yeah.  And the second one will be Yah (spoken in a high-pitched voice with a German accent).

Me:  You’re going to name your son Yah?

GC:  No, that’s not going to be his real name.  I mean Cole David (referring to the name of his cousin).

Me:  Oh, like baby Cole.

GC:  Yeah.  And the third one is going to be… um…  Kazakhstan.  Kazakhstan Zaletski.

Me:  Wow. You’re going to name the third one Kazakhstan?

GC:  No!  Kazakstahhhhhhhhhn (using the proper pronunciation).  Like the country.  YOU know.

Me:  Oh, of course.  What a great name.

GC:  Yeah.  Charlie will be born on June 9th.  Cole will be born on January 1st.

Me:  A New Year’s Day baby!

GC:  What?

Me:  A baby born on New Year’s Day.

GC:  No.  January 1st.

Me:  January 1st is New Year’s Day.

GC:  (completely ignoring my last statement) And Kazakhstan will be born on my birthday, January 26th!

Me: It’s nice that you already know when all of your children will be born.  That makes things much easier.

GC: Yeah, I know.  Then, when they’re teenagers, I’m going to send them out of the house.

Me: What do you mean “send them out of the house?”

GC: I’m going to send them out of the house to live in their own houses.

Me: When they’re teenagers?

GC: (shrugging his shoulders) Yeah.  That’s when you grow up and have your own family

DEAR LORD.

Me: Maybe after college, though, right?

GC: Um, yeah.  After you graduate from regular school, then you go to the Academy (referring to the Naval Academy).

Me: Is that where you want to go to college?

GC: Maybe.  But maybe somewhere else.

Me: How about Penn State?

GC: Nah.

SHEESH.

Fear of Flying -or- The Case for Dramamine

I get sick when I fly because I’m afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don’t think Dramamine’ll help.

-LT Kaffee, “A Few Good Men”

I HATE flying.  Hate it.  Not only do I get nervous on the plane, I get nervous in the weeks leading up to a flight.  I get nervous purchasing a ticket.  And I am well aware of the statistics, so please don’t bother quoting them to me.  Yes, I know that I am more likely to die in a car accident, and I get in a car every day.  I understand.  The problem is, no one informed my sympathetic nervous system.

The result of this fear is that I spend almost every flight I take in a controlled state of panic.  If I’m by myself, or flying with people who are not my immediate family, I stifle it completely.  And what do I do to keep it under control?  I either talk or write.  If the person next to me is game, I’ll talk for the entire flight.  About anything.  If the person next to me is asleep, or obvious in their attempts to avoid interaction of any kind, I bust out a notebook.  I begin to write, and what comes out looks something like the script of a bad spoken word piece.  Try to imagine this in the voice of a famous, dynamic speaker.  Say, Maya Angelou:

Why is this flight taking so long?

Why doesn’t the pilot warn you every time there’s going to be turbulence?

The upholstery on these seats looks like burlap.

Am I the only one on this plane who is scared out of her mind?

I hate flying.

I’m never going to fly again.

The nice thing about flying is… you’re above the clouds and even if it’s raining below, it’s sunny up here.

What was that?

What was that noise?

Nobody else is looking around.

Didn’t anyone else hear that?

Why is this flight taking so long?

See?  It goes on that way for paragraphs.  And I know what you’re thinking.  I tilt the notebook so that the person sitting next to me can’t witness my neurosis.  For all she knows, I’m writing the next great novel.  I’m writing it really, really fast and taking deep, cleansing breaths.

In general, I spend most of the duration of every flight in silence, praying for the end.  But not if My Husband is with me.  If My Husband is with me, he gets the full effect of my split personality.  You should know, if you don’t already, that My Husband is – wait for it –  a pilot.  That’s right.  I am terrified of flying and I married a pilot.  We’ll get into your armchair analysis of my motives another time.  For now, it is only significant to know that he should, in theory, be able to calm my nerves.

But this is what actually happens: We board the plane and choose our seats.  Sometimes I want the window, sometimes I don’t.  My Husband couldn’t care less where he sits.  That’s because he’s going to fall asleep before the flight attendants have begun announcing the safety procedures.  We get settled in and I pick up a magazine.  He puts his head against the back of the seat and drifts off with no effort whatsoever.  We taxi, we take off, and I’m okay as long as we’re climbing, then we level out.  If the flight is as smooth as glass, then there’s no problem, and, on that subject, I don’t see why every pilot can’t just make every flight as smooth as glass.  But I digress.

At the first sign of turbulence, my heart rate jumps, my spine straightens, and the adrenaline is flowing.  I try to let my husband sleep.  I really do.  But at some point, I believe my mental health trumps his preference for a nice, long nap, and I grab his arm.  “Why has it been so bumpy for so long? ” I say.  “He turns his head away from me, does not open his eyes, and mumbles, “It’s just turbulence, Beth.”  I suspect he knows he’s not going to get off that easily.  “But why so long?” I continue, “It’s been, like, 30 minutes.”  He heaves a deep sigh, opens his eyes, and turns his head back to me without lifting it away from the headrest. “Beth, it’s how the plane stays in the air.  This happens on almost every flight.  It’s normal.  What are you so worried about?   I’m not worried.”  What am I so worried about?  We’re 30,000 feet in the air with nothing between us and the great wide beyond except a couple of feet of metal.  “What do you think I’m worried about?”  I whisper. “I’m worried we’re going to crash.  That’s all I’m ever worried about on an airplane!”  And this is where he musters all of his interpersonal skills and hits me with a response that will live in infamy.  “Beth, what are you going to do if this plane crashes?  Let me tell you something.  If something goes wrong, it’s gonna’ go wrong in a hurry.  And if this plane goes down, we’re going to fall out of the sky like a washing machine.  There is nothing you can do.  Just close your eyes and go to sleep.”

Oh…  OH!  All these years, I’ve been wasting time worrying when all I needed to do was tell myself that, in the event of a crash, we would come screaming down from 30,00 feet, spinning out of control,  LIKE A WASHING MACHINE.

Suffice to say, that little gem of practical advice has never really had a positive impact on my ability to calmly experience the miracle of flight.

This is where I’m likely to change the subject and accuse him of being insensitive, forgetting for a moment about my perceived lack of security, and the fact that he would like to sleep.  I could go down that road, and he would then be awake for the rest of the flight (score one for me)!  But since a commercial jet probably isn’t the place for us to explore our communication issues, and because keeping My Husband awake would be an offense for which I would later pay… maybe it’s time to try the Dramamine.