OTTAWA — In a turmoil disrupting the normally boring southern neighbourhood of Blossom Park, the Smith family finds themselves at the center of an unusual—and apparently catastrophic—crisis: their six-year-old son, Timmy, is pretending to be an airplane.
“It all began innocently enough,” Mrs. Smith explained, clutching a mug of chamomile tea as though it were her only lifeline. “We took him to the airshow last summer, and that’s when the trouble started. He came home making engine noises, spreading his arms like wings, and running around the house yelling ‘Zoom!’ At first, we thought, ‘Oh, how sweet! A budding pilot.’ But then it kept going. And going. And now we don’t know what to do.”
Timmy’s delusion has spiraled out of control, according to his parents. The once-innocuous arm-flapping has evolved into a full-fledged flight schedule. Assigning the busy straightaway of Conroy Road as his runway, “He wakes up every morning announcing departures and arrivals,” Mr. Smith lamented. “This morning, I was Flight 207 to Eggo City, and my wife had to board Yoplait Express. How are we supposed to live like this?”
Their plight has become the talk of the neighbourhood. Mrs. Johnson, their nosy neighbour who has little else to do, is practically an expert on Timmy’s movements. “Every afternoon, he’s out there, banking left, banking right, making those ridiculous whooshing sounds,” she said. “And last week, he started wearing goggles and a scarf. A scarf! If he’s an airplane, where’s his pilot license? That’s what I want to know.”
In grudging defense, his Mom admits that they’re actually ski goggles, and it is rather cold outdoors.
But in their estimation, the Smiths’ attempts to resolve the “problem” have been nothing short of heroic. “We’ve seen pediatricians, therapists, and even consulted an aviation historian,” Mr. Smith declared, his voice quaking with parental fatigue. “All they do is shrug and say, ‘He’s six.’ As if that’s supposed to help!”
Local school officials have also been dragged into the turmoil. “He refused to sit down during circle time because, and I quote, ‘Planes don’t sit,’” said Mrs. Thompson, Timmy’s first-grade teacher. “He even tried to taxi down the hallway last week, arms out, making engine noises. Honestly, I admire his commitment. It’s better than half the essays I get from high schoolers.”
For Timmy, the skies are the limit—literally. When asked about his future, he stood tall (as tall as a six-year-old can stand) and declared: “I’m gonna see the whole world! No baggage fees, no delays, just me and the wind!” His enthusiasm was palpable, even as his parents looked ready to file an FAA complaint against their own child.
Meanwhile, the Smiths’ attempts at intervention have reached truly desperate heights. “We even tried grounding him—literally,” Mrs. Smith said. “We tied a string to him and called it an anchor. He just yelled, ‘I’m a blimp now!’ and kept going.”
As the saga unfolds, the community remains divided. Some admire Timmy’s creativity. Others, like Mrs. Johnson, continue to campaign for “air traffic control measures” in the neighbourhood. But one thing is clear: while the Smiths are praying for Timmy’s imagination to make an emergency landing, Timmy himself is already cruising at 30,000 feet, in search of Candyland.
For now, Blossom Park can only watch as the Smith family battles this existential crisis—armed with little more than juice boxes, therapy bills, and the growing suspicion that maybe six-year-olds are just supposed to be like this.