It's been pretty windy so far this weekend, more kite weather than rocket weather. I've expanded the fleet a bit with more inexpensive nylon from Burlington Coat Factory.
But we barely got to the 'purple park' when Mo had a seizure. I saw it coming, really, because Friday night, she barely slept. Meaning I barely slept, too. She was happy, in a great mood, but every time I'd think I got her ass settled back down and went to sleep, she'd knee-drop on me or go cackling down the hall.
On the way to my Mom's Saturday, and then to the park, she was looking a little droopy, which had my seizure heckles up, too.
She did a bit of swinging and then slowed the swing and sat there. I went over to her and couldn't tell at first whether she was with me or not. When it seemed she was, I asked, 'Did you have a seizure?'
'Yes.'
Keep in mind, this is a kid who doesn't speak much. She makes all kinds of verbal noise, but conversational language is not the norm. Also, this is a kid who will say 'no' to everything. Yet this is three seizures in a row where I've asked her seizure-related questions and gotten clear verbal 'yes' answers. I'd rather she didn't have seizures at all, but it's encouraging that in time, I think, she can learn to flat-out tell us when they're coming so we can make sure she's safe when it strikes.
She slept some in the evening, but I feared her getting up in the night if I let her sleep too much. So we headed back out to the park to get her some fresh air and activity.
Em copped an attitude about going. Refused even to be bribed into going. Then was invited to a sleepover Sunday night, and when she asked if she could go to that, I said maybe if you go the park with us. She said, 'then I can't go.'
At which point I decided to be a Dad and told her she was coming to the park like it or not. The question of the sleepover would be a matter of whether she fought me about it or got her happy head on. She ended up having a great time flying kites, gloating when she got hers higher than mine (because she had more line to work with).
Em also had fun with sidewalk chalk: it gave her an opportunity to fight with her sister. She started by chalking a Les Nessman wall around her part of the parking lot, then did her best to keep Mo from coloring in her area. Meaning that this baby-blanket sized rectangle was the only part of the ten acre lot that Mo wanted to color in.
After church Sunday, we hit Hobby Haven. I lost the cross-rod for my seven footer last weekend, and I figured Hobby Haven would be the place to go for replacements. Not quite. They had some carbon fiber rod that would have been perfect but it was five inches too short. I could buy two short pieces and a thing to join them, but that would have cost more than the kite in question.
I asked around at Shawnee Mission Park when we were flying later that day, and after talking to a couple of serious kitepeople, I concluded that it was unlikely I'd find what I wanted locally or for a reasonable price. That in fact I'd be better off buying another $7 kite and using the one missing it's cross rod for spare parts.
While we were in Hobby Haven, though, Em asked about a kite. A ladybug. It turned out to be a $5 kite, and given how good a luck I've had with $4 to $10 kites from Burlington Coat Factory and Wal-Mart, I decided to pop for it. Also, in my quest to send a kite so high I can no longer see it at all, I bought a 500 foot spindle of 50 lb. test. The handles wanted to come loose on it, though, so this evening I epoxied it together (and I think I managed not to get any epoxy on the line. I was way to lazy to unspool the whole thing before performing this adhesive surgery.
The sleepover hostess called wanting Em to come sooner rather than later, but I wasn't going to let her get out of lying the new kite she'd talked me into. And rather than have her groaning 'can we go now?' five minutes after we got to Shawnee Mission Park, I decided to let her invite her BFF along.
Everyone was all jazzed about flying kites. The possibility of flying rockets, too, if the wind died down was described by the BFF as 'That would rock!'
The girls carried the canvas chairs up the hill while I carried our growing fleet of cheap kites. I got one up, then another. Then one for myself.
And before I know it, Em has given up on her kite because it did a face plant.
There were other kitepeople about, flying some pretty amazing stuff. Big airfoils that tow other big kites. Snoopy on his doghouse, a big dog, etc. And the girls were sitting in their chairs with the backs to these awesome kites.
Mo came out and helped me with the butterfly at the end of 500 feet of line. I was, honestly, uncomfortable letting her take the reigns for fear she'd let go. The winds were strong enough I doubted I could catch up to the spindle if she did.
Plus, there's power lines on the other side of the road, and I'd already had the kite land in the road once. I'm not sure what the actual electrocution risk is: I know power lines carry enough juice to kill you, but a surely thin nylon wire couldn't transmit nearly that much juice, and would probably melt pretty quickly if it tried. Plus, the plastic handles are presumably decent insulators.
I'm not saying I'd want to try an empirical test of the theory, but it seems possible the real danger is when the kite is tangled in the power lines and you try to get it back instead of leaving it be. What I am saying is I came maybe twenty feet from the empirical test without realizing it until after the fact.
But anyway, Mo did great with holding the line. Even cranking it in some. Though in the process, I learned the handle was coming out of the spool. Hence my epoxy job this evening.
Anyway, next thing I know Em and her pal are bitching about how bored they are. There's nothing to do. As in nothing like fly the damned kites we came out to fly. Or watch the amazing kites the serious kitepeople have up in the air. They had their nylon chairs positioned back to the action, complaining that if they turned around the sun would be in their eyes.
And they were thirsty. And tired. And hot. And bored.
At which point I dispatched the tweenagers to their sleepover, taking Mo to the store for some grillage. I had in mind, actually, steak. Because I know she eats it like a fiend, and with only two to shop for, it might not break the bank. But she was very clear in her desire for hamburgers.
So that's what we did.
I have one of those patty makers. Tupperware or maybe it's Pampered Chef. Anyway, if you use a measuring cup to measure the meat, you can get really consistent patties with it.
Except when they cook down, they don't cover much bun. So this time I made 2/3 cup patties, but then added a second step of rolling them a bit between a couple of sheets of parchment paper. To about 5" diameter. Which worked out perfectly for patties that fit the large-ish stone-ground wheat buns I bought.
I put a slice of sharp American and a slice of so-called processed Swiss on each burger.
Oh, and a baked a couple of potatoes the size of tackling dummies and steamed some asparagus.
After dinner, we headed to Purple Park to do sidewalk chalk and swinging in the interest of a full night's sleep. And launched a couple of rockets.
With snarky new decals.
I inquired of a coworker about transparent label stock awhile back and was told she didn't know of any. Then my boss was running some transparencies through the color copier and I mused about using spray mount to make this material into rocket decals. And he asked, 'Why not just use the clear label stock?'
Which, it turns out, we had lying around. And it works great! I've got a half dozen rocket designs in my head just to use the decal ideas I've come up with.
Meantime, I made labels for Stubby, Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby, and Hatful of Hollow, my tribute to The Smiths.
I had just repaired Stubby. He separated last Wednesday, doing minor damage to his ass-half, and I'd carefully remounted the shock chord in the bottom half. I guess Stubby was born under a bad sign, because when the D12-5 blew the recovery charge tonight, he separated again.
The rocket recovery maniacs at Purple Park recovered the top half, which drifted a long ways since the heavy half of the rocket had gone into freefall. And they recovered that back half. Which I can salvage some elastic from, anyway, but it isn't going to fly again.
Core sample. Here's the picture to go by the definition in the Rocket Dictionary.
Hatful of Hollow also flew, and drifted a bit downrange, but was happily recovered.
Meanwhile, Mo was a hit with her sidewalk chalk. This one little boy, I'd guess he's about four years old, was full of questions about Mo. 'Does she talk?' 'Is that what she always sounds like?'
My inner-snark would have said, 'You're a toddler with a fucking Mohawk, and you're asking me about the normalcy of my daughter?' Instead, I tried my best to explain to him the verbal limits she deals with.
A mother (though not of the miniature atomic punk) was on hand, one who understood a bit because she has a sister who works as a para, helped me get the kids on a different page than focusing on how different Mo was. Next thing I know, they're admiring her art and sharing the joys of her sidewalk chalk. By the time we left they were very sweetly telling her goodbye and totally thrilled that she was waving at them and saying 'goodbye.'
They were so keyed up, in fact, they were climbing light poles I know for a fact Spiderman would have trouble with.
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