Face Your Fear

They say the only way to get over a fear is to face it. I don’t know who actually said that, but whoever it was, has obviously never been on a plane with me.

I’ve been flying since I was a tiny tot because we had grandparents that lived very far away.  So most summers, I was on a plane or two.

Back then, I didn’t realize there was anything to be scared of. But given a little age and awareness, at some point, I figured out that I was flying 10,000 feet above the ground, in a metal tube, filled with gasoline.

My parents didn’t take my new found knowledge of the death trap we were traveling in seriously, and so the travels continued.

The more I flew, the more scared I became.

For a while, (basically when my parents were no longer my legal guardians) I stopped flying.

Problem solved. No flying. No fear. Worked much better than that mumbo jumbo about facing your fears.

I then married, and once again, I was saddled with someone who thought flying was no big deal. So back to flying I went.

Along the way, I concocted my own personal method of facing fear. Much like the psychological books advise, I pretend it doesn’t exist, I bottle up the fear way down in my psyche, and when it rears its ugly head right before I enter the plane, I let it eat me alive. And I pray. A lot!

I’ve also established a few coping exercises that I’ve picked up along the way. They seem to help.

1. Every flight starts with instructions from the flight attendant about how to survive should we crash. I know them by heart but that isn’t the reason I no longer listen to them. When the attendant starts talking, that is my cue to put in my earphones and listen to music. Because if I actually listened, I’d focus on the “in case of an emergency” part and how the life jacket under my seat was not going to save me as we are flying over the Appalachian mountains. If there is a fire and the plane is engulfed in smoke, I’m not going to be able to count in the dark how many rows I am away from the Exit doors. The instructions are quite unnecessary, and if I ever hear the words “brace, brace,” I will simply lose my mind and can only hope that we all die so no one can ever tell the rest of the world how I acted in those final moments.
2. The music I listen to is my 80s playlist. Nothing calms me down like a little Spandau Ballet or Rick Astley. I don’t know why it works, but give me a little “Never Gonna Give You Up,” and I’m instantly calmed.
3. I wear the same clothes on the flight there and back. Again, I don’t know why, but it works. You can scoff, but considering I’ve been on 100s of flights, worn the same clothes and am not dead — well enough said.
4. I don’t sit by my husband. Well, let me rephrase. He doesn’t sit by me. While not afraid to fly himself, he says I freak him out because I look so terrified.
5. So instead he sits me, several rows back, with our kids. I’ve explained that is a mistake because, unlike the instructions, should the oxygen masks come down, I am not going to be able to assist our children. Instead, I’m going to start screaming and crying. He says that is a chance he will have to take. Seriously? What bad parenting.
6. If I’m sitting by an Exit door, I’m not going to be able to open the door and assist the other passengers deplane. No way. No how. But I’m not going to raise my hand like they ask and tell them that. Instead, I try making eye contact with my husband who, at this point, is chatting up his seat mate trying to pretend he isn’t married.
7. I’m not going to the bathroom. Seriously? I can’t understand why anyone does. Can you not hold it? Why would I unbuckle myself and then lock myself in a tiny room 10,000 feet above the earth and begin to undress? Not happening.
8. If you get up to use the restroom, to stretch your legs, to get something out of your bag, I’m going to assume you are ISIS. I don’t care if you are a five-year old blonde child playing with a Barbie, if you are up and make a sudden move, I’m immediately trying to make eye contact with my husband.
9. He’s the one by now drinking a Coke, enjoying his pretzels and laughing with the people next to him from Utah. No amount of throat clearing and my shouting out “Brody” gets him to turn around.
10. If we hit turbulence, since by now I know not to count on my hubs, I start to look for the steward. If they continue to serve drinks, then I feel better, If they sit down and buckle themselves up, I think they should be fired. Panic sets in and I raise the volume in hopes that Rick can work his magic.
11. Finally the plane lands, I gather my belongings and walk off the plane, I profusely thank the pilot (probably a little too much) and then search for my husband who miraculously remembers he is married again.

We then continue on our trip like all the other normal families, none the wiser except for the poor soul next to me who continually listened to me sing “Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, Never gonna run around and desert you……

I Hate Windmills

I don’t know where to start. Our family is going through some stuff. Trust me; our stuff is no more important than your family’s stuff. It’s just the stuff that creates anxiety, loss of sleep, loss of a little cash (no thanks to Amazon Prime, you bastard!), gain of appetite and a few pounds. Unfortunately, it does not cause loss of appetite. If anything, I’ve been eating like Eric Cartman trapped overnight in the Cheesy Poof factory.

My problem is I don’t have a reference point for any of this stuff. As soon as I figure out the solution to one problem (See: Dad’s adherence to any other toilet paper that doesn’t have a dancing bear on the package), another, bigger, more difficult problem pops up.

I attended a writing conference once, and the keynote speaker explained to her audience of columnists that deadlines are like a windmill. The arm of the windmill knocks you on the head, and you think, “Whew, done with that one.” But before you can get that last word out, here comes the next arm of that stupid windmill.

Just when I got the hang of a sleep schedule with my oldest, he started teething. And by the time I had placed all dangers out of reach of my newly crawling youngest, he started walking. When I got the hang of pickup and drop offs for school, my oldest started high school. When we got out of those awkward adolescent years, then came the hormones and all the crap that goes along with that part of growing up. When I finally figured out Facebook, Instagram steps in. I don’t even want to get started on Snapchat.

Just a few months ago, my husband I were outside talking to our oldest. He was unguarded. I don’t remember the conversation as much as feeling a sense of relief and silently thinking, “He does love us. No, no. He likes us. Which is even better.” It was just two years earlier that we were arguing in the morning drop off lane at his high school. He wanted more freedom. I wanted him to understand why he was too young for more freedom. He opened the door to get out of the car, and like every other morning of morning drop off, I said, “I love you. Have a good day.” I thought he was going for the silent treatment, so I repeated, “Jacob, I said I love you.” Before he slammed the door, he replied, “Bye, Psycho!”

I was shocked. Now understand that Jacob is my first so I wasn’t prepared for this. I mean all the other teenagers said that and worse to their parents, but not my kid. My kids would never do that. Not to me. We have a great relationship. They love me. They think I’m funny. They respect the boundaries I set because they know it’s for their good. I know, I’m an idiot.

On the day we were outside talking to our oldest, I realized a shift had taken place. He is growing up and maturing. He’s capable of making good choices and does (for the most part). As I was checking the “made it through high school with a minimal amount of emotional damage” box on my mental child-raising checklist, the next arm of that damn windmill hit me. We didn’t even get to enjoy the fact that we made it through the rebellious high school years before time reminded me that now, it’s time for college.

I’ll enjoy the last few weeks he’s home before helping him move into his new life on campus. I’ll try not to think about how much I will miss him. I’ll try to remember how exciting this time is for him. Also, I hate windmills.

Comments? Email becky@wilsonlivingmagazine.com.

Just In Case…

I’m getting ready to board a plane, and just in case anything happens, I know my family will be fine.

This is the first time I’ve left my boys (children and husband respectively) for purely selfish reasons. Without giving you the long drawn out story, I was given the opportunity to go to New York City in December. The best part, the trip is free. Who could say no to that? I’ll tell you who. Jay Andrews could. He said while I was free to take a bite out of the Big Apple, he doesn’t have the appetite for something so busy. I understood and didn’t have the heart to tell him he wasn’t invited anyway.

Preparing for a trip like this involved a lot of planning. Not for weather. Not for shopping or sightseeing. I couldn’t just pack a bag. I had to prepare my home for the worst. What if mommy didn’t make it home? I can’t help it. Anytime I step on a plane without my family I’m filled with the inevitable “what ifs.” Not the sentimental “what ifs.” More like, 

What if Jay invites people back to our house after my very extravagant memorial service and they see how messy my closet is?

What if they decide to use my guest bathroom? I haven’t cleaned that toilet lately.  

What if someone sees my programmable scale, hacks into it and finds out how much I really weigh?

What if people see the Tupperware container in the back of the fridge my youngest named ‘Harry.’

What if Jay is able to pull himself out of a horrible state of mourning long enough to try and find my life insurance policy and instead finds out how much I really paid for the living room furniture?”

So, just in case, I prepared. I cleaned every room in the house. Except my closet because, seriously there just wasn’t enough time. I cleaned out the fridge, laundry is folded and put away, dishes washed, scale thrown out and all incriminating receipts put into an envelope labeled, “Property of Angel Kane.”

I did all this so people would remember me as that incredibly witty, thin, organized and frugal woman named Becky Andrews. No one wants to be remembered as the chubby girl with messy closets and expired dairy products in her fridge.

I even went the extra mile for Angel. To prepare her for the visit she’ll make to my house, I cleaned out my utility room. She’s always complaining about that room. I’ve never seen the importance in cleaning — much less decorating — a room that houses all the dirty underwear.

That’s what kind of friend I am.

So when she comes to “visit” or take back all the gifts she’s given me over the years, I know she’ll leave my house happy. Not just happy because she took back that flower arrangement she’d wanted since she gave it to me for my birthday a few years ago. But happy that I finally listened to her and put an armoire in my laundry room.

Post Script: Good News! I made it home safe and sound. The bad news, the house is now back to its normal state of messiness (much to Angel’s chagrin). It may be time to go out of town again.

Contact Becky Andrews at becky@wilsonlivingmagazine.com.

Snoop Got Snooped

Snapchat Phone Social Media Icon Smartphone

I’m a firm believer in snooping. My kids are fully aware.

If your phone is where I can get to it, I’ll go through it to see what you’re up to. I’ll also do random phone snatches, because if you’ve left your phone where I can get to it, it’s probably because you have deleted anything of real significance. (Seriously, I’m no amateur!)

Passwords and codes don’t thwart me. I may not remember them, but my husband does.

The word privacy means absolutely nothing to us. In the Kane household, if you are a minor, living under our roof, you have no legal rights.

Should you not hand me your phone, then I will take your keys, your car, your basic will to live.

I will admit, however, it took me a while to figure out that texting wasn’t the only way teens communicate these days. (My kids got a laugh out of that one!)

But once I realized you could private message on all forms of social media, I was on to them like glue. Twitter, Facebook, Instagram. I have become quite the social media stalker. It’s amazing I still find time to do anything else!

And then came Snapchat….

For all of you parents who still believe your child doesn’t have a secret Instagram account, let me enlighten you. Snapchat is our form of messaging and it’s basically the only way kids really communicate these days. Texting about homework and posting sweet photos on Instagram are mere smoke screens our teenagers have concocted to throw us off their scent.

The only problem is that in order to understand how Snapchat works, much less navigate it, you must have a young, agile mind. In other words, you must be 24 or younger!!

For those that don’t know what Snapchat is, think of it as a secret society where our kids can post photos and videos that automatically self-destruct within a few minutes. So when your parent tries to snoop on your phone, there is nothing there for them to see.

Half the time when I’m snooping on Snapchat, I hit the wrong button and end up staring at my face earnestly looking down into my daughter’s phone.

The worst part of Snapchat is that our children are posting about everything and everyone.

How do I know this? Because every once in a while, I get lucky and a compliant teenager, living under my roof, allows me a brief glimpse into her Snapchat world. Like magic, she works the buttons and up pop all these videos and photos.

And to my horror, I saw many of you were the stars of these clips!

There you are asleep on your recliner, head back, mouth open, snoring. (With the caption “He is so old!”)

There you are in your yoga pants and favorite sweat shirt (the one with the stains) yelling at them to clean their room.  (With the caption “Blah, blah, blah”)

There you are sitting at the kitchen table, with your robe and rollers, sipping on your morning coffee while scrolling through your Facebook feed. (With the caption, “My morning view”)

And, I must confess, it made be giggle.

Until I noticed, my other teenager filming me, while I was watching you. At the time I was in my PJs, my hair was in a bun atop my head and I had a charcoal mask all over my face.

He started typing a caption. And then he hit send.

The snoop just got snooped!

Just Google It

“Pain in lower back, left side.”

“How to know if you have a brain tumor.”

“How to lose 15 pounds in four days.”

“What it means when your cat throws up in same spot every day”

“How to keep your cat safe because husband is tired of cat puking on the bathroom floor in front of his sink.”

“Texting code teenagers use if they want to do drugs, drink alcohol or plan parties.”

“Retirement calculator”

I stopped googling after that one. I had to. That little search led me to a site where I entered the dollar amount we’d like to have in the bank when we retire. It looks like we will be kickin’ it retirement style at the ripe young age of 144 and 146. Jealous? Dreams can come true.

Google, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. All very cool and powerful. Every single one is a gift and a curse. On one hand, where else can you find 14,111,292 recipes for chicken cutlets or read expert opinions about what really happened with Brad and Angelina? On the other hand, a simple “best brunch in Nashville” search can send you down virtual rabbit hole.

If I wake up between the hours of 2 a.m. and 4 a.m. and the moon is in retrograde OR if the cat runs through every room of the house trying to catch a shady-looking moth OR if the dog runs the perimeter of the house barking loudly trying to protect us from a pile of leaves, I’m up for the night/morning. When this happens, the only thing left to do is to catch up on anything that happened between the hours of 9 p.m. and my wake time. Two hours later, I’ve read up on the Bubonic Plague, taken quizzes and bought a new wheat coffee guaranteed to help you lose weight and thanks to Amazon Prime, I’ll get it tomorrow.

An hour after the first two, I’m still wide awake. But thankfully I’ve learned even more.

“11 facts you didn’t know about the cast of FRIENDS”

“Experts reveal what REALLY happened to Amelia Earhart”

“What word describes you?”

OR my favorite; “Get Beyoncé’s body by New Year’s.”

It’s maddening. 180 minutes spent being totally unproductive. Except for that Beyoncé diet thing which I’ll try the following Monday.

Last week after four straight nights of waking up at 3 a.m., I couldn’t take it any longer. Is my body clock or stress or my cat to blame for keeping me awake? Deep down I knew what the problem was. I’m addicted. The withdrawals started after five hours without a device. My smartphone was the drug and Verizon, my dealer.

Before I could pick up my phone and type “how to quit a smartphone cold turkey,” my groggy husband rolled over, opened one eye and said, “Move your phone into the kitchen to charge.” Brilliant.

That was a week ago. It’s been tough. I almost fell off the wagon when I woke up with a terrible headache early one morning. Instead of reaching for my phone and googling “when to worry about a headache,” I grabbed a bottle of water. After a few minutes, I fell asleep. It’s good to be informed, but when it comes to unlimited (and most of the time useless and unsubstantiated) information, ignorance is bliss.

Comments? Email becky@wilsonlivingmagazine.com