The highlight of our Easter Sunday was when James and DeDe came over to fly kites. James had my dad’s industrial-strength kite and we had our Sam’s Club kite, which proved to be no match for the industrial-strength wind. It spent no longer than 30 seconds in the air before plummeting down into a fence, tree, another fence, another tree, yet another tree and yet another fence.
The other kite, however, soared high in the air. We each took a turn flying it, and the force of the wind and the thrill of keeping something soaring in it was almost as exhilarating as a 75% off sale.
Christian wanted a turn, so I tried to have him stand in front of me and hold the two handles underneath my hands, but it wasn’t working very well. And by not working very well, I mean that he kept stepping on my toes and I kept screaming, “Pull right! Pull right! The other right!” It was kind of killing the peaceful, Easter, family-togetherness feeling.
The wind had lessened from gale-force to a strong, friendly breeze, so I let Christian take the reigns alone. He did pretty well for a few minutes. So well that I began surveying the scene to make sure that Max was still following DeDe around like a well-trained Maltese.
When I did turn my attention back to Christian, he was about 200 feet in front of me, being pulled by the kite in giant strides, before doing a full somersault and skid on the ground.
Oops.
Other than a raspberry on his hip, he was alright, although according to him, he had stared mortality in the face. He subtly tried to remind me throughout the rest of the day.
Me: “How’s your brownie?”
Christian: “Who cares about brownies when I ALMOST DIED TODAY?”
I don’t know where this kid learned to be so dramatic….
