Captain Roland H. Throop

I want to tell you that all kids are created equal, and that every one of them is special, but then, I went and had kids, became (or am becoming) a mom...so you know...that's a tough sentiment to hold these days. Roland is just one of those kids who sucks the marrow out of life and is pretty much always game for an adventure. Want to sit on Santa's lap? OK. Want to touch this sea anemone? OK. Would you like to fly the plane? Sure, why not?

We're boarding the plane, getting to squish in between the A and B groups of Southwest. Roland is mister-inquisitive through it all. Wants to hand the boarding pass to the ticketing agent. Wants to touch the buttons on the jet way. Asking a million questions a minute. When we finally take the small steps onto the plane I say, "Roland, this is where the pilots sit, would you like to see it?" Thinking they'll let him take a look. Wrong. They eagerly invite him to join them in the cockpit. However, the traffic of people mooing their way to the back is moving Brian, Aria and I along...some random dude asks us if we have a camera handy? "No." And then a flight attendant says, "I'll send him back, don't worry!" Um....and the sea of people carries us down the aisle. 

We're pretty cautious about our kids, and this happened so fast, but before you know it we're in the back of the plane, staking our row and careening our necks towards the front for a glimpse of Roland. Some sound of him not happy. What if he freaks? What if someone steals him? What if he doesn't get on the plane and the doors close? What if...and the flight attendant motions that he's on his way back. But we can't see him, he's too short. And there, amidst the grownups ceremoniously stomping down the aisle, is a 3.5 foot Blondy with a blue-green England backpack confidently making his way, keeping plenty of space before and after him, and waiting his turn. The random dude, who we still don't know where he came from or where he went, pops up like Santa and asks for a business card so he can email us the photos. We oblige. Whew. Roland is grinning from ear to ear, and Brian and I are now totally jealous. We never got to sit in the cockpit. We never got to pretend fly the plane. The closest we've gotten is some stick-on wings you could pin to your shirt. 

We got over our adolescent jealously to ask a million questions ourselves, "Did you have fun?" "What was it like?" "Where was the pilot?" and then that night, these photos - on cue - popped up in Brian's email. I have to say, he looks pretty good up there! Lucky son-of-gun!