Home For the Holidays.

"Are you OK? What happened?" My mom asked as she peered down the stairs, the kitten poking its head around the corner.

"I think I busted my knee," I responded, still halfway up the painted, plank-stairs, one leg tucked underneath the other, my sock-covered toes balancing my weight. I was half-laughing, half-crying. God that hurt; the part below my kneecap was throbbing where I landed on the stair, the top of my thigh swelling where I forced my knee forward and into the overhang. The apple pie I had dropped was plopping down the stairs-- I didn't lose too much of it, just what was left was going to have to be eaten as an apple crisp, instead of pie.

"Honey, I think you have to carry your daughter again," Mom called into the den.

"Do I have to?" My dad.

"No, I'm OK." I balanced on my left leg, on my real bad knee. I don't know what came over me, thinking I could run up the slick basement steps...holding a pie...in sock-feet.

Maybe the holidays make you think you can run around like you're four again. Maybe accidents like this are there to prove that you're not as resilient (or bouncy, per se) as you once were.

But what killed me was when Mom asked my dad to carry me. Again. When was the last time your dad carried you? Physically put you in his arms and rushed you away for a band aid, an icepack, a safe place?

For me, it was a year ago. It happened last summer, when we were in my grandmother's barn-- the large garage/workshop where we keep and work on the cars. I was wearing sneakers and my jeans were slightly covered in grease and dirt and we were all stinky from working in the garage on a hot summer Florida day when I did something stupid. Well, sort of.

Sneakers protect your feet, not your ankles. And well, I kicked an axl for a 1932 Ford Model A. We have a ton of them laying around, but I miss-judged and kicked it, hard, with the knob of my ankle (or whatever you want to call that protusion). I was in mid-sentence when it happened and I just stopped. I couldn't talk, I couldn't make a sound, I stood there for what seemed ever. I tried to move my leg, but brain-to-foot function wasn't working.

I think Dad sensed something had happened, there wasn't any sound (no loud CLANG when I hit it), but I had zoned out and Danny kept asking for the wrench that was in my hand, to which I had no reaction. Then, in a sort of wimper, I said I hurt myself. And I started to cry.

I couldn't even feel it, and I was thinking to myself, Why the hell are you crying? I'm 23 and I realize I hurt myself, but I can't feel the hurt and the tears are coming anyway I DON'T UNDERSTAND. And that's when Dad knew I needed him. He scooped me up and ran me into Grandma's kitchen where they put my swollen ankle up on the kitchen table and covered it in an icepack. And then I felt the hurt.

I didn't break anything, didn't twist anything; I definitely got bruised and definitely had a hard time walking the rest of that day...but knowing that my dad, at 56 (then) was still ready to jump across the garage and run his (then) 23 years-old-and-still-a-klutz-daughter to the kitchen to get a boo-boo bunny (ask later) put on her ankle still amazes me.

I hope I can do the same for my kids.