I went paragliding this weekend. It was amazing; the running and jumping off of the cliffs, seeing the Pacific Ocean in various shades of blues and greens beneath me, and twirling through the air before landing smoothly back on the cliff. I saw dolphins surfing the waves, I saw nudists sunbathing on the beaches below, and I got to talk to the gentleman who was behind me on the tandem flight.
He was a 48 year old man, J.C., with a wife and two young daughters. He met his wife while skydiving and they fell *smirk* deeply in love. With the love of the sky between them, of course their daughters would follow in their adventurous footsteps. The daughters, 11 and 13, are solo paragliders who run and jump off of high areas, catching the drafts of the wind to glide smoothly through the air. J.C. and his wife encourage their children to follow their heart and do so safely.
When I returned from paragliding, I didn’t realize that what I did was considered a faux pas as a mother. Such events are “reckless and stupid” for someone with a child according to a few people who enjoy creating divots in their couch cushions. So while a child of such a skilled pilot as J.C. is capable of soaring through the skies gently, a mother such as myself is not? There is risk in all things, and if we operate under the lowest risk, we will never experience the great things in life such as leaping off of a grassy cliff into the arms of the wind, or the drop in your stomach when your butt leaves the floor of the airplane when you jump out, or the thrill of summiting a mountain, or the pride of successfully lifting a heavy olympic lift after months of training.
Oh, I get it. I need to preserve myself to raise my child. Of course. And I weigh my ability to accept the risks by implementing various mitigations. But as I get into my car to drive home, I am putting my life in more danger than if I was to jump with J.C. again. My son will be just as adventurous as his parents, and of that I am glad.
Enjoy the couch, pussies.