Last weekend something momentous happened in the life of our youngest.
After five months’ worth of lessons, he took his first solo flight.
He sent us a short video clip (taken by his girlfriend, from the ground) on Saturday, and started posting longer clips on Facebook Sunday morning. I watched them all with my heart racing. Not because I was frightened for him, but because I knew so well how much this experience meant to him. He’s only 21 years old, but this has been his dream since he was big enough to lug several enormous aircraft identification guides everywhere he went in a backpack bigger than he was (in other words, since he was five).
Watching him take off, circle the air field, and touch down smoothly, I just wanted to jump up and down and give him a huge hug.
But then people started asking me about the videos. It was church morning, and many people there taught him in Sunday School or know him at least a bit through me. “Was that your son?” “That was terrrifying!” “Weren’t you scared for him?”
No, actually. I wasn’t. Does that make me abnormal? A bad mom? Does it mean I don’t care about him?
I don’t think so. For one thing, I figure he wouldn’t have been allowed to go up alone if his instructor didn’t think he was perfectly capable. Then, too, I know my son. On any day of the week, in pretty much any situation, he’s the sharpest knife in the drawer. When it comes to planes and flying, the love of his life, I know he’s put in absolutely everything he’s got. At the same time, he’s cautious and very deliberate about best practices and correct procedures.
He’s absolutely precious to me.
But there’s nothing to worry about.