But I can do a summersault!

Grace and coordination are not qualities that I am blessed with. Since childhood, I have been prone to accidents anytime I try to do something physically challenging or anything with lightening speed. I never outgrew that tendency toward catastrophe, as you might remember from reading about my ice-blocking adventure. A great number of my young years were spent limping and waiting for scabs to mature on my very disfigured knees. Regrettably, most of the injuries I sustained spawned from a complete lack of fear and poor judgment. But at least once, I had some company in the poor judgment club.

I was eight years old and living in Beaverton, Oregon. My parents were comfortable leaving us four kids alone during the day while they were out, but anything in the evening hours required a babysitter. On one particular evening, Mom and Dad had gone out on a date and we kids were left with a teenage girl to care for us. We adored having babysitters because therein lay a perfect audience for our imagined games and budding talents. Showing off was the perfect way to spend an evening.

My siblings and I were running around like a bunch of wild hyenas, giggling and tumbling and screeching with delight. Things began to escalate as we each tried to out-do one another in hopes of winning the prize of being the babysitter's favorite. Someone was doing cartwheels. In the living room. Absolutely one of the five cardinal sins of living in our house. (#1 - don't talk back to your mother, #2 - no food in the living room, #3 - do what you are asked the first time that you are asked, or prepare for death, #4 - do not stomp or slam doors, and #5 - do not attempt acrobatics indoors.) Well, if cartwheels were being done in the house, then I would take it one step, (or maybe it was one giant leap), further. I pulled all the seat cushions off of the couch and piled them into a fine replica of The Leaning Tower of Pisa, and then I climbed on top of it.

I stood there at the top of my tower and waited until I had the full attention of the babysitter. She sat there on the floor, grinning, and knowing full well what I was about to do. Her expectant smile was all the encouragement I needed - I cartwheeled off of that tower.

In my entire life, I had never been able to do a cartwheel, and so why I thought that it would be a good idea to try one from a starting point 3 or 4 feet off the ground is a mystery to me. A bigger mystery, however, is why the babysitter thought it was a good idea. She had plenty of time to stop me while I stacked the cushions, and more time to see the red flags while I carefully scaled the cushion tower, and one more chance to prevent catastrophe while I stood there with a ridiculous grin, ready to perform my stunt and emerge as the victorious champion of our living room circus performance.

But she just sat there and smiled at me! And I was either too stupid to realize that I was about to regret ever wishing for the sitter's favoritism, or too embarrassed to chicken out.

The next thing I knew, my hand was hitting the floor with tremendous force behind it, and something was very, very wrong. I was writhing on the floor, screaming and clutching my arm, and that babysitter, that stinking babysitter - it was all her fault, was hovered over me with panic oozing from her mouth and her hands as she tried to calm me, or at least quiet me.

Pain. That's all I could think about. Pain, pain, pain.

When I was finally able to stop howling and crying, fear overcame me. "Oh, no. When Mom and Dad come home and find out that I was doing cartwheels in the house, and off of the couch cushions too, I am dead. They are going to kill me." I think I cried some more after I realized that my life was about to end.

I went to bed shortly thereafter, and the baby sitter came into my room and said that she thought we should say a prayer. I wanted to tell her that she was an idiot, that some kind of horrific damage had already been done to my arm, (which I was still cradling, don't anybody touch me), and that it was pointless to pray over it because not only would it not be miraculously okay, but I was facing punishment to end all punishment for the way in which this crippling pain had come about. But I couldn't very well say that to her, and besides, I could tell that she was equally concerned for her own fate as she was for mine. I didn't know at the time that my elbow was fractured, but I knew enough to be sure that something was very wrong with my arm, as I couldn't move it. Surely if anyone found out that she had allowed me to pile all those stupid cushions and then cartwheel off of them, she would be in as much trouble as I. Feeling a little sorry for her, I told her to go ahead with her prayer. She then left me to my attempts at sleep.

The next morning, Mom woke me and told me to hurry and get ready for a wedding that we had to go to.

What? That's it? No, "How's your arm?" No, "What have I told you about cartwheels in the house?" No spanking? No lecture? I couldn't believe my luck! The babysitter hadn't told! I was going to live! Never mind that I still couldn't move my arm - who cares? I happily, though carefully and slowly, dressed myself for the wedding and presented myself in the kitchen. Still, no one said anything. Hurray!

A few hours later, we were sitting on the world's hardest benches in a Catholic church. I have only been to that one Catholic wedding, so I don't know if it's normal for them to last an eternity, but this one did. About five minutes into it, I could hardly stand the pain in my arm. I had had no Tylenol or Advil, no ice pack or even any pity, because to get any of that, I would have to fess up to what I had done. So I sat there on that bench, waiting for the end of the ceremony and trying to not to fidget. Sitting still while in such pain is a very difficult thing to do. I was still holding my arm at a perfectly still right angle, and cradling it with my right hand, but my legs were screaming to run from there. "Just get up and run!" they shouted.

About six days later the vows had been given, and the kiss and the music...and FINALLY, we got to get up and go. To the reception. Someone help me! However, the ability to move at will and consume food seemed to diminish the pain somewhat, and as I had gotten used to holding my left arm immobile with my right hand, I could run around and play with the other kids. I was nearly able to forget the pain. Mom asked me at some point why I was holding my arm. I told her that it hurt, but I must have just slept on it funny. Simple as that, or so I thought.

At home later that evening, I was trying to get out of my dress so I could take a bath, but my arm was stuck. I contorted myself into all sorts of positions in my efforts to peel the dress off of myself, but to no avail. I stood there, wondering what to do, and came up with no other option than to ask for help. I knew that I was as good as handing myself over to the enemy. I would certainly be getting my comeuppance.

Mom did her best with the dress, and after working at it for a good, long while, she was able to extricate me from the garment. Upon seeing my swollen arm, she knew that it was not a matter of having "slept on it funny", and asked me what had happened. I willingly outed myself at that point, because the pain had finally won me over. I told the story as succinctly as possible, and then put on a t-shirt and jeans and went off to the emergency room with my dad, almost a full 24 hours after the incident. Impressive that I lasted so long, don't you think?

I had a small fracture in my elbow, and for that received a cast to hold my arm in that tiresome right angle position for a few weeks. It felt better to be helped, and slightly medicated, and to have finally told my parents the truth. Dad figured that I had suffered enough and no punishment was given. After the hospital, he took me to Burgerville, where I remember sitting next to him in the car, sheepishly eating french fries as he asked me if I was ever going to do something like that again. Nope. Not me. Dad told me that I was never to attempt a cartwheel again, indoors or out. I agreed, and wondered while we drove home if the babysitter would be told to never again attempt to supervise children. I bet she got off scott free.