On Saturday morning, David and I are leaving on a jet plane...don't know when we'll be back again. Okay, yes, we do know. We're flying to Houston for a wedding on Saturday night, then turning around and flying home on Sunday.
I am nervous.
First of all, I am a terrible flyer. I hate doing it. It was torture, living in California for so many years and always having to board a plane to see my family or old friends. "White-knuckle flier" barely comes close to describing me when the plane is taking off. It's amazing I still have skin on my fingers, really.
Anyway, the second and more important reason that I'm nervous is...this will be my first overnight trip away from William. As in ever. I've never spent an entire night away from him. Never. Not since I gave birth to him.
Now, I'm okay with leaving him with his grandmother for a night. They get along like the proverbial house afire, and frankly, she probably takes much better care of him than I do. No, he'll be fine. But I'm all freaked out that our plane is going to crash, and my only son, my sweet little boy, will be an orphan and he'll grow up to not even remember his mama. He'll never remember the person who called him "Butterbean" or spent all those many, many hours over the past two years, reading books to him or playing choo-choos or soothing him back to sleep. And that's when I get all weepy. I'm getting all weepy right now, just thinking about it.
Yes, I realize that statistically flying is safer than driving. Yes, I know that everything will probably be okay. But everyone knows that I practically have a Ph.D. in worrying (it goes along nicely with my Ph.D. in Phillips Head Screwdriver usage). I always envision the worst case scenario. Always.
Everything's going to be just fine, right? Right?