My Child is a Kite | Tragic Comedy

Parenting is like flying a kite.

When I was a boy of nine, I went out to fly a kite on the banks of the Potomac River. The Virginia border sat just across the river. I flew my kite in the same winds responsible for the violent current and they did not disappoint. I watched and maneuvered as the air pulled it higher and further over the river. With every tug I felt in my hand, I released more string, and what I released, it took. Every extra inch I gave was an inch it grew until I had nothing left to offer.

Still at its apex, the kite pulled at all the string I had, and my hands, firmly clasped around the wooden spool, tried to control it without pulling it out of the sky completely. But once I'd gotten the hang of flying a kite with the string fully unraveled, I got restless again. I was out of height to offer, but the kite wasn't out of height to gain. I could continue to let it fly only while I was holding it, and eventually draw it out of the sky back to where it started. Or... I could let it go and watch it pursue new height without me and ultimately end up somewhere else - somewhere I could not get to it - somewhere along the Virginia border.

Being nine, I was still more in awe of the elements than afraid of them, so the next time I felt a pull, I let the kite go. I watched it take all the air that my hold on the string had kept from it. Without my guiding hand, it tumbled and fluttered, sputtered and dipped. But it stayed in the sky - stayed above water. I watched transfixed as the kite that used to be mine easily cleared the mighty Potomac. And I stayed on the Maryland banks until I'd seen it glide slowly down to rest on the grounds of a different state.

Fifty years later, I helped my daughter pack. She was headed to North Dakota, 1400 miles away. I had taught her, among other things, all the states and their capitols, the order of the U.S. Presidents, four chords on the guitar, how to ride a bike, basic sign language, and what a free safety does on a football team. And I was out of string.

I stood firmly on the Maryland ground while she flew to another state to settle her house, earn a living, run marathons, and mentor other young women. I could not have done those things for her, I could not even have guided her subtly through them - I could only release her and free her to pursue them.

It is a terrifying thing to let something that once belonged to you belong to itself instead... to test the integrity of what you've made against the winds and above a violent, dominant current. But as far as you can lead someone is not as far as they can go. It is the tragedy and triumph of creating something capable.

But kites were made to fly, not merely to be flown.

Two Replies to My Child is a Kite

Scott Hardie | November 7, 2021
I'm sorry I didn't get to read this sooner, Steve. (I'm just busy.)

This is lovely and a great metaphor, and indirectly a nice tribute to your daughter too.

Barack Obama described parenthood as being like your heart walking around outside of your body every day. It's not for the weak.

Steve West | November 7, 2021
I was getting a little worried about you and dumbfounded as to what to do about it. Then I saw an update on Facebook and relaxed.

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