Kite Flying Depressing Me

Can’t believe he’s real, especially when I get to see my 1st born son’s heart soar to the heavens, flying his 1st kite all by himself at 4 years old, telling the kite with mixture of boyish bliss and Eagle Scout leader in the making authority, “follow me.”
The penetrative, heart-warming cheer I’m receiving from watching my son in awe, dart his feather feet throughout a gorgeous stretch of wild, emerald, upstate New York, one hour outside of Cooperstown, NY for a wedding getaway hasn’t worn off yet. As my beautiful son whizzes around a gorgeous patch of open meadow, emerald green of endless wonderfulness in rural, river runs through it, Upstate, New York splendor with his darting off to save the day Flash flickering feet. Hoisting the kite up high, high, high, up into the sky, sky, sky, beaming with maximum boyish glee and can’t believe I’m doing it pride of the highest degree.
Understand, my 4-year old son flying his 1st kite was all made possible because of my father in law. He bough the kite as a gift for my son Arthur and showed him how to fly the damn thing because I didn’t know how, nor was I very confident in kite flying assistance being covered under my Triple A plan either.
My son takes another victory lap with the kite, blowing in the wind, with cheeks hurting from his smile stretching from ear to ear, knowing, this new marvelous plaything was going to continue to take his boyish, childhood sense of life being full of endless wonder and heart pulsating beauty higher.

But then, my heart became enshrouded in an overcast cloud of heavy weariness of perpetual letdown disgust, as I came face to face with the realization how I can’t hate my father in law anymore because my perfect dad only sees his grandson once a year because he no longer does the cold. Thanks for obliterating the superior moral high ground I felt in the presence of my father in a law dad, knowing he’s only babysat twice for all 3 kids in eight years or shelled a penny for daycare ever. But he was willing to co-sign on a house loan eventually, so at least this means, he’s willing to believe his daughter’s good for the money, eventually.

 

The other reason kite flying depressing me because it reminded me of how my father choose another indoor summer in AC splendor in Arizona versus flying back east with Mimi to bond and grow closer to his 3 grandchildren more than 10 days in August. This is our family, us versus AC and hellish heat in Arizona, where baby feet on the clean, bright, Spanish pool tile can melt to death.

I didn’t want to be depressed about kite flying forever so I bought my son, a fancier kite, with a Pirate logo on it. Come to think of it, I should fly ISIS flags around my house on Halloween to scare away trick or treaters.

 

So, we take all 3 kids to the local park in the spirit of taking their pubescent puppet strings of imagination higher. I had every intention of assuming the lead yet my handy gentile wife overtook the Kite flying teacher position because her father took her kite flying also as kid in Australia by Mother’s Beach, so I’m thinking she’s made in the shade like any of the Fly Girls hooking up with Damon Wayans at an In Living Color after hours party back in the day. I was mistaken like the time I thought she’d complete a fully formed cartwheel in our background in Park Slope, Brooklyn. Which was aged ago when Lena Dunham had much skinner arms and wasn’t so full herself. The cartwheel attempt was a total horror show. Her legs barely lifted the ground, as she stumbled over the tumbleweeds in complete, dejected, head in the dirt disarray similar to this damn kite. Which my wife couldn’t get off the ground if my book advance money, if I weren’t to self-publish Stay at Home Comedian was riding on it.
Eventually though, the spirit of one-eyed willie graced us enough of a stiff wind to catapult my son’s pirate kite to take flight for more than two seconds without doing an immediate, demoralizing, Kama Kaze conjuring nose dive on the spot, again and again. As the kite took flight, in whirling, shooting spin, my 3 children let out a heart racing, thrill fueled, wahoo, look dada, it’s still flying. Later, I got depressed back home when my wife made it clear she was scarred from the experience because she got winded from all the incessant kite diving versus the desired state of American Beauty, leaves in constant motion above ground flying. I got depressed again, knowing our children’s shrieks of joy for the brief moments of Kite flying hangtime didn’t mean as much to my wife because she made the kite flying a competition between herself and mother nature. Who swatted away her weak ass kite flying ascends with Dikembe Mutombo, finger scolding fervor.

Dad calls the following day. How was kite flying with Arthur? I reply. Boyish Bliss you played no part in Dad, no offense.

The Chinese use kites to measure distances between father and sons. If dad lifts his son’s spirits by taking him kite flying because a growth spurt eluded him despite being 2nd cousins with Yao Ming, they’re tight like Chinese Finger Traps.
Kite Flying is a magical experience as a father because it’s impossible to not get tingly all over when you think of the shrieks of pure hearted, jade free joy emanating from your own flesh and blood as the kite takes flight up high, high, into the sky, sky, sky. In times like this it’s impossible to sigh. Next time, your kids asks for a gift, because they’ve been fuss free and made their bed all week, you’ll know what to buy.
I always hated my mother in-laws excuse for not buying her grandchildren, nice cloth’s or toys because of claims of the short shelf life for their usefulness before they outgrow them. But I’ll never outgrow the divine blessed opportunity to grow closer to my children and get lost in blissed out, high as a kite without the assistance of pharmaceuticals or weed wonder.

 

Reliving my age of innocence with my dreamy children through kite flying fills my bruised, neglected, adolescent heart with renewed promise and hope for brighter, higher tomorrow’s. This lucky old funny man giant, whose gone from Hendrix to Mahler, who lives to fill these kids’ hearts with endless wonder, hellbent on ensuring mama doesn’t bore them to death either, is lonely no more.
The End

By,
Michael Kornbluth

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