Fly Nemo Fly!

Last Saturday, Grace and I were having a rad father-daughter hang out day while Amanda worked.  After we buzzed the Dunkin' Donuts drive-thru rocking out to Led Zeppelin, Grace threatened to ruin the mood by asking a question that I had secretly been dreading for some time.  No, she didn't ask "Where do babies come from?" or "Could you please explain your curious affinity for Storage Wars?" 

She made the perfectly reasonable request to fly her kite.  That may not sound like a big deal to you, but I am something like the Chicago Cubs of kite flying.  Even when things start out promising they usually end in disaster.  Mostly, though, kites and I never sniff promising.  Kite flying is the kind of activity that can stymie the technically-challenged.  It requires intricate tasks like knot tying and uses intimidating words like "aerodynamics", "lift" and "Assembly Required".  Knowing how to do stuff/fix things/put stuff together is a glaring hole in my Dad resume.  (How can I teach Grace skills that I do not possess?  I need to get learning.)  I have previously documented my battles with machinery, but my fight with kites dates back even further, to childhood.  Too much wind, not enough wind, bad equipment-my kite was less likely to get off the ground than John Madden after his third helping of Turducken.  I also once, around age nine, got knocked down by a kite someone had left anchored unattended in the sand.  The kite itself was high in the sky, out of my sightline, and the clear string was impossible to see as I ran across the beach.  That string caught me across the throat, lifted me off my feet and slammed me down faster than a Hulk Hogan clothesline.  Finally, Grace's kite expectations are likely inflated because most, if not all, of her kite experience is the sky carnival that the Kite Loft kite shop flies above their boardwalk shop.

Fortunately, BrainStormProducts LLC, manufacturer of our meager Finding Nemo kite made a kite that is idiot Bryan-proof.  No knots to tie, minimal assembly, a cartoon clownfish and a sustained breeze made me look like a hero.  Given Grace's reaction you would have thought I was Orville Wright.  Shouts of "Yayyayyayayyay!" and "Fly Nemo Fly!"  filled the playground.  I think Grace even shouted too.  Then she grabbed the string and took off running full speed, her hair flowing behind her in perfect time with the kite tails flapping fifty feet above.  Of course, I was bored after about forty seconds.  Then, staring up at the floating kite, she told me she wanted to hold my hand.  So we stood hand in hand, wordlessly watching Nemo dance on the breeze and I suddenly wished the moment could last forty years.  Perfect Saturday, and my love of kites, restored.