Back in the late 1980s, I had it in my head that I wanted to learn to skydive.
At the time, the airport near Frankfort, Ind., offered one-day Saturday classes for adventurous, thrill-seekers like myself. I envisioned myself jumping out of an airplane, free-falling through the clouds. I loved flying, and the thought of jumping from 10,000 feet up gave me the ultimate adrenaline rush. The course called for eight hours of instruction, then my first jump would be with an instructor. But the second jump of the day would be on my own for a terrifying, long plunge toward earth. I loved thrills. Roller coasters, the Tower of Terror, haunted houses… anything to get my blood pumping, and you could count me in. I was young, naïve, and full of carefree energy.
After I announced my plan to my Mother, she gave me that scowling, evil-eye look, but didn’t even try to talk me out of it. She probably knew better than to start in with the preachy sermons. I would have been even more determined to make the drive to Frankfort after her lecture.
Older and wiser, she simply used all life experience and know-how, as she warned me matter-of-factly, “Just be sure to check the small print in your medical insurance coverage benefits.”
Dang it! She was right. There in the small print of my coverage explanation it plainly stated that injuries suffered from skydiving, bungee jumping, and-or any other attempts to take one’s life were not covered medical expenses. Never argue when someone says, “Mother know best,” because they usually do.
It wasn’t that my Mom didn’t want to me to experience to skydiving. If I wanted it, she wanted it. That’s how mothers were created. I know that now from my experience of being a mother. But she always wanted what was best for me, and it was simply her nature to warn me of the risks involved when jumping with a parachute from 10,000 feet.