Day 113

Stealing Home.

"How does a 36 year old man fall down and skin his knees?"  That is what my 8 year old boy asked me with tears of laughter filling his eyes as I lay in a crumpled heap at the end of our hallway.  Now, I have made an art of making fun of my old man over the years.  Taking great joy in the laughter obtained at his expense.  I work in "dad" jokes like some artists work in oils and pastels.  My work shows some true genius.  I don't recall, however, taking such jabs at him at the tender age of 8.  At that age, he was still my hero and I thought he could do no wrong.  Some things don't really change, but now I can joyfully point out his faults without the concern that he might think less of me or become angry at my jeering.  As with all generations, they tend to eclipse the ones prior with their accomplishments and abilities.  If we have done our jobs as parents, that is the end goal isn't it?  To make our children better than we were at that same age?  I could have thought of other things for him to eclipse my achievements at, but this day he would choose making sport of his old man his aim.

I admit that I am not as fleet of foot as I once was and perhaps I am toward the upper end of my prime.  That being said, I still try to be an active and sporty father.  I do my best to keep up with games of tag and running around the house like a madman with toy gun in hand.  My wife, for her part, does the same.  The unfortunate part of today's incident was that I wasn't playing with the children at the time . . . not really.  I was actually chasing after my wife in an attempt to shell her with a little rubber ball the kids and I had been pelting each other with all afternoon.  Mom arrived home and joined in the game.  She eventually retreated down the hall to change out of her work clothes and I gave chase.  There is a small step in Madame Chabou's house of doom that transitions from one hallway to another.  In stocking feet, I didn't nearly clear the step and hooked my big toe on the step's edge sending me into an unrecoverable blind spin resulting in a less than gracefull meeting of my face with the floor.

The floors consist of large 12x12 white tile that are slippery under the best conditions.  At full steam on sock clad feet, an error of judgment can lead to fatal results.  Upon impact, my momentum and the slick floors turned me in to a torpedo running hot and true.  Sailing down the hall on my belly as if on a back yard slip and slide, it was evident that I was not going to stop before I crashed into a wooden rocking chair and, ultimately, the wall.  Doing my best to prevent facial injury that would certainly hamper my trophy husband status, I attempted to rotate onto my side so I could take the force of the impact on my back.  Without a minute to spare I managed to roll onto my side and crashed into the corner with a whimper and a thud.  For a moment I was certain I could hear the home plate umpire proclaim: "You're out!"  Clearly not worried for my safety or potential injury, my onlooking children erupted into laughter that still echoes through the house.  Their laughter has permanently burned itself into my bruised ego.  And then . . . the verbal assault begins.  As I lay there taking stock of my injuries, moving fingers and toes to insure that no spinal injury had rendered any of my limbs useless, the 8 year old begins to inquire as to how I could have taken such a fall at my age.

If I could have moved at this point, I would have certainly chased him from the scene.  As it was, my old aching frame needed a bit more time to recover, so I lay there taking the verbal abuse and by this time laughing a fair bit myself.  "28" is what I thought to myself.  That's the year I notice the body stopped cooperating with me as it had in my youth.  At 27 you could have run over me with a truck and I would have bounced back to my feet the next morning, good as new.  At 28, the wheels started to fall off the wagon so to speak.  Things that never hurt before, began to hurt.  Injuries were not so easily recovered from and the abuses that I had required my body to endure in my youth were now making themselves known.  Now a days, the insult that faces me first thing in the morning is that there are two steps leading down out of my bedroom.  Each morning I am greeted by a symphony of pops and cracks as I descend these two steps to start my day.

So, the final answer to my eldest's inquiry as to how a 36 year old man fell down and scraped his knees, elbows and ego?  "Son, I'm not 27 anymore."  He looked puzzled.  I laughed and said, "I'm not as young as I once was and one day you won't be either . . . Enjoy your youth".  I think he understood and then endeavored to help me to my feet as I have done every time he has fallen down.  Do the roles really reverse so quickly?  I am sure he doesn't realize this now, but this will not be the last time he has to help his old man to his feet.  For now, I will do my best to keep my youthful outlook on life and hide my aches and pains.  I don't think either of my guys are ready for me to retire.  So, for all of you parents out there attempting to cling to what tiny bit you youth you have in your aging bodies . . . HOLD STRONG and never let them see you flinch.  I wish you the best and will speak to you again tomorrow . . . IF I CAN GET OUT OF BED.