Burping Up Butterflies

The airplane was packed. I had been up since 5:00 a.m. After driving an hour to the airport, waiting another thirty minutes to check in and suffering a two-hour delay before our flight boarded, I was exhausted. I wanted to lean back in my chair, close my eyes and fall asleep.

But I couldn’t. Eric, who was two and a half at the time, was sitting in the seat next to me.

“Mama, color with me.” He said. He pushed a red crayon into my hand. Instead of resting, I was tracing a picture of Clifford the Big Red Dog.

Just then, the plane bucked. My stomach bounced into my throat as the plane dropped. I felt like we were falling out of the sky. Turbulence.

I heard startled “Ohs” from the other passengers as the plane bumped and bounced. The captain made his “fasten your seatbelts” speech. When I looked at Eric, I saw wide eyes and a pale face. His cheeks were puffed out, as if he were preparing to cry.

Air travel was not new to me. I had flown from sea to shining sea. On the surface, flying didn’t phase me. Most passengers sitting near me would describe me as relaxed. But what they would not suspect is that inside, in the darkest recesses of my brain, there was an itty bitty piece of me that doesn’t believe air travel is possible.

I know, it’s crazy. But just when a plane is getting ready to take off at the airport, a tiny little brain cell pipes up and says, “What the hell are you doing, you’re not a bird! People can’t fly.” Then my brain cell says, “The only reason this plane can fly is because all of the people on the plane believe it can.  If you don't believe it can fly, it won't."

After telling my brain cell to shut up, my normal routine is to try to relax and convince myself that if I do believe that flying is possible. Clap your hands kids if you believe in Tinker Bell. Eventually I talk myself into breathing deep and resting until the flight is over. So, when a 727 suddenly bumps and drops, my tiny little brain cell that doubts the reality of flight wakes up and yells “I told you so.”

Being an emotional mess is not an option when you are a mom. Moms don’t get to be sick. We have to tough it out and get the kids their breakfast. Moms don’t get to be scared. If the four year old wants to ride the roller coaster, we do it. Moms aren’t allowed to be tired. We have to press on and get our babies through each day. It’s our burden and our gift.

On this particular flight, giving into my insecurities was a luxury I didn’t have. Eric was counting on me. I needed to look strong and be strong.

As the plane jolted and jerked, I tried to ignore my paranoid brain cell and to look and sound relaxed. I leaned over to Eric and put my hand on top of his. “What was that, Mama?” He asked.

“We’re bouncing on the clouds.” I smiled as I said it. “Did you get butterflies in your belly?”

He nodded, eyes still wide.

“If you have butterflies in your belly, you need to let them out.” I said.

“I don’t know how.” He said.

“The only way to get butterflies out of your belly is to burp them out.”

For the next twenty minutes, Eric and I made pretend burping noises and giggled as the butterflies flew out of our bellies. When the plane bumped especially hard, I said, “That was a big butterfly, you need a bigger burp.” Eric burped louder.

When I finally felt the wheels contact the runway, I let out a long breath. Eric wasn’t scared anymore, he was laughing and happy.

“Mama, can we do that again.” He giggled.

“Maybe some other time.”