Super happy we made it to the ground in one piece. And even happier that if my daughter ever questions my love for her…I can say, “remember that time I jumped out of a perfectly good airplane with you?”

If I learned one thing in my Second City improv classes, it’s the power of yes, and. Affirming what someone says and building on it, and at all costs avoiding saying no. I definitely employ it at work, and also in my more important, but not very well-paying job of mom to three girls.

Second City was an influence on my interactions with them, as was a kitschy sign that hung in the nursery when they all were babies. It was a list of rules about how to raise happy kids. I don’t know what happened to the sign, and I don’t remember all the rules. But one of them stayed with me: Say yes more often.

So when my middle daughter started talking about her approaching 18th birthday, I was trying to be all “yes, and…” and then she starts talking about getting a tattoo, and yes, and quickly became oh hell, no. Then, she says: “OK, I want to go skydiving.”

I didn’t say no. I didn’t say anything. I’m on a plane twice a week, every week, and I have never had occasion to jump out of a perfectly good one. I thought maybe she would forget about it. But in the weeks approaching her birthday, the request was more frequent.

I had dinner with a colleague who had jumped out of a plane earlier in the year for her 50th birthday. She says, without hesitation: “You should let her and you should go with her.” She’s a smart woman. And, she didn’t die in the process. So I took her advice, and said yes.

A leap of faith, so to speak.

On my daughter’s 18th birthday, we arrived at the skydiving place, and we went through what seems like about a 20-page disclaimer of things we agree that the facility is not liable for, which is everything.

And then we have to watch a video narrated by the grandfather of tandem skydiving. He proceeds to tell us that the activity we are about to embark on is “full of risk…and could lead to serious injury or death.”

I’m trying to focus, but his entire torso is covered in what appears to be a perfectly flat-ironed beard. Either that or he is wearing a turtleneck made of hair.

He starts out saying that there is no perfect plane, no perfect pilot, no perfect parachute…basically acknowledging that several people and pieces of equipment are involved in our jump, and each of them can be a point of failure that again…could lead to serious injury or death.

I turn to my daughter and say, “this hair bib guy is really sucking the fun out of this for me.”

Having watched the video and again acknowledged our risk of serious injury or death, we are paired with our skydiving instructors.

Mine’s name is Clash.

“Like the band?” I ask. He nods, and I am thankful it’s not Crash.

But I am immediately concerned that I easily have 40 pounds on him. I start to panic…should I have someone, I don’t know…sturdier? Will I crash on Clash? Or, is it better to have someone slighter, who will put less demand on the parachute? Why didn’t the hair bib guy cover any of this in his list of things that could possibly kill me?

We are fit into harnesses and get a brief tutorial about what is going to happen.

Clash asks me if I want to pull the cord. “What happens if I don’t do it right?” I ask.

“Then we both die,” he deadpans. And then laughs loudly.

Skydiving death humor is not funny to me at this moment.

We board the plane, which is tiny, and Clash attaches himself to me. Like in the movies, the plane has a red, yellow, green light telling us when to go. As we hit 14,000 feet, we start to move toward the open door on the yellow light. I tell my daughter I love her and give her a thumbs up. Really hoping that that is not the last time I say it. And then Clash and I tumble out of the plane.

We freefall for 60 seconds. It feels like about a second. I’d like to say this part was scary or exhilarating or felt like flying, but honestly all I felt was my face feeling like I stuck it out of the window of a car going 120 miles per hour.

Clash pulls the chute open, and we immediately soar upward and start our descent down. Our likelihood of serious injury or death seems less likely now. But all I can ask is, “do you see my daughter? Did her chute open?” Clash points to a speck in the sky above us, assuring me that yes, she is also fine.

We start to float toward the earth, and everything is going smoothly, until we start to get to closer to the ground. And we start to spin.

Heights don’t bother me. Roller coasters don’t bother me. Apparently, jumping out of a perfectly good airplane doesn’t bother me. But spinning…whether on a Ferris wheel or a merry-go-round or about to land in a parachute makes me instantly queasy.

I feel like I’m going to be sick. I start to think…which force is greater? Gravity? Or friction? If I actually hurl, is it going to hit the ground? Or hit Clash in the face? I wish I would have paid more attention in science class.

I start to convince myself that gravity is the greater force, and even if it’s not, Clash has probably been puked on before, right?

The mental acrobats that are going on in my head provide enough of a distraction that we are about to land, sliding onto the grass on our behinds. I don’t crash (or puke) on Clash, so it’s been a good day.

My daughter lands shortly after me, equally safe, and super happy for the experience. We hug, and I squeeze her extra tightly, so glad that she is back on the ground in one piece.

“We did it, Mom!” she says, happily.

“Yes!” I say. “And we didn’t die!”

Best yes, and ever.