Cap'n

My return to normal life has been far less dramatic this time through. Camp Skywest is as numbing as usual, and home life is as relieving, but this time I did not cry on my bacon. I collected my fourth stripe and my starred wings and commenced making authoritative but relaxed sounding P.A. announcements. The biggest difference is that I now sit where the passengers see me while boarding. Which means that I need to visually exude the same relaxed confidence for the one in five passengers who looks up with the examining look, who is trying to determine whether or not they ought to trust their lives into these hands. It would make a very interesting psychology study, to see which pilots people felt would be good pilots verses which pilots were actually good pilots.

More importantly I am back to full time parenting my poor sons who still apparently think I live on the other end of the telephone. Of course they also think that the remote control is a phone.

A guy who I used to fly with, who has 5 kids and is overly wise for a pilot said that if you got dropped into parenting at any point except where you do, you could not possibly handle it. True. You start with a few cells, no needs, and no skills, yet, you are a parent. Though the rest of your life will be influenced by and centered around the outcome of those cells, for now you only need to incubate. And for now our boys’ needs are simple. Simple enough for me to handle. For now.

This is the part that is so incredibly intimidating. When I am 60 something they could look at me with the same anticipation and need for my approval as they do now. It just won’t be so obvious. When I used to play music more, there was this kid who kept showing up at our shows. He would stand directly in front of me in the front row. He would not look at anyone else. He would watch me. He also played bass. He watched my hands, and I could feel the intensity of his watching. My hands would sweat because I knew he would spot all my mistakes. He did not blink. Eventually his band opened for our band, and he showed up with my exact make and color of bass, my exact amp. Obviously it was creepy, but that’s not really my point. I could only keep thinking, “I am not that good”.

Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery but I am not sure it translates when it is genetic. Ian and Jeremy had little choice but to inherit the bad with the good from dear old dad. Similarly they may have little choice but to learn from the actions of my life. But here is my growing audience. Ian and Jeremy with front row seats to my average little show. My hands are sweating.