As I laid on the tile floor, moaning and squirming like a dying bug, I realized that parenting is a hazardous occupation. Not just difficult and scary and exhausting and chaotic, but flat out dangerous. In this particular instance, I was maneuvering through my daughter’s bathroom, sidestepping water toys, exploded makeup kits and toothpaste globs (how does so much not end up in their mouth!?), and I slipped on a puddle of water more appropriate for a back alley than a child’s restroom. I also learned the older you get, the longer it takes to fall. My arms and legs went akimbo, I’m fairly sure I screamed an obscenity, my face smacked against the edge of a door, and I went down. Like two tons of bricks.
My wife raced to my side, probably thinking one of her daughters had gotten hurt given the audible yelps of pain. And there I was: her once brave night crumpled on the ground, done in by an ounce of soapy water and aging knees. Unimpressed with the whole scene, she did a quick turnaround and headed back to the daily escape we call “post-bedtime zen.” I struggled to my feet and hobbled out of my daughter’s room—who slept through the entire spectacle, by the way. Long story short, my elbow now occasionally ‘clicks’ when I extend my arm.
It got me thinking about all the cuts, bumps, bruises and hospital visits we face as a growing family. Kids fall a lot. And run into things. And get their fingers jammed. And constantly get their hair stuck in the tire axles of miniature electric trains. Seriously. Like so often we have a documented procedure and designated area of extraction. But this blog is about fatherhood, and I only have so many paragraphs before the next tantrum. Parents get hurt, too. And it takes us much longer to recover. So without further ado, here are my top five dad injuries:
Honorable Mentions
All the Communicable Diseases! From COVID and the flu to stomach viruses and pink eye, we get so many fun things from our kids. These mega-germs spread like wildfire in our house and I find myself spending far too much time in Walgreens.
Down for the Count. I’ve been hit below the belt with every projectile in my home. It. Is. So. Painful.
5 - Made You Look
I play this game with my girls where I pretend something’s on their shirt. I point to it, they look down, and then I poke them in the nose. Super original and mature, I know. We both laugh and life moves forward. My daughter Ella flipped the script and caught me off guard one evening. As I looked down for a stain on my favorite shirt, she rammed her index finger so deep in my eye socket, I’m sure she touched brain matter. My vision was blurry for a few days and I now flinch to random noises and movements almost constantly.
4 - Skating Fail
The family has recently gotten into roller skating. Not because we actually enjoy traveling back in time to the groovy bandstand era, but people keep having parties at the rink. And since these events form the majority of my current adult social life, I have to strap on the musty brown-and-orange skates and break it down to the Cupid Shuffle a little more often than I would like. But I’m a firm believer not everyone is meant to be eight-wheeled. The last time we stepped back in time to 1972, my daughter Saoirse zoomed past and sent me into off-balanced whirlwind, eventually putting me ass over teakettle onto the rubbery rink floor. I felt it from my head to my heels, and every vertebrae in between. I’ve hung up my skates.
3 - Nightmare Fuel
Saoirse has this super creepy life-size doll head. That should be the story right there, but it goes on. It’s not like a toy head; it’s used to practice hair style techniques. And that’s fairly practical in of itself, but it’s more about the context of when and how you see it. Sometimes I’m cleaning under the bed and she is just staring into my soul. She startles me coming around corners and I’m certain she judges my dad skills. One day, I was trying to reach a bag on the top shelf in Saoirse’s closet. Perched awkwardly on a step stool, I caught her in the corner of my eye, swore I saw an actual human person inches from my face, fell backwards with an audible scream, missed tumbling through a nearby window by a few inches, slammed against the closet wall, and collapsed to a heap on the floor. Mildly concussed with a nasty shot to my right hip, I actually felt fortunate not to shatter glass and somersault down my roof to the paver driveway below. Boy, the neighbors would have a field day with one. (“At least I didn’t fall out of my kid’s bedroom window from an evil, bodyless dollhead.”).
2 - Waterlogged
Something about grownups in pools makes kids go ape shit. They’re either tormenting you in a never-ending game of keep away, or they’re riding you like some kind of crazed sea donkey. And for the latter one day, I was almost the ass that didn’t surface. My two older girls plus a gaggle of other children decided it would be fun to drive me around the pool while they laughed and screamed as I scrambled for air and control of my limbs. After about 14 rounds, I broke, maybe swallowed a little water and felt that all too scary moment of, “Oh shit, I’m drowning.” Somehow I found a small slurp of oxygen amongst this submarine from hell and hoisted myself poolside. Parents and kids cheered alike as I threw up a little in my mouth and I faked the tough guy character through gritting teeth. I cried in the public bathroom a few minutes later.
1 - High Chair Hijinks
I was a brand new dad, excited to put all the stuff together and prove to my family that I actually was useful around the house. Unboxing a new, ridiculously-too-expensive highchair, I laughed at the simple directions and began planning for the next project. A few snaps here, a couple clicks here, easy peasy, lemon squeezee. One problem, though: when fitting one of the reinforced plastic legs, my hand slipped and I grazed a sharp edge. “Oh, shit!” my wife screamed as I looked down to a miniature fountain of blood squirting from my wrist like a Tarantino scene. The warranty is probably void now, I thought, as I used a Christmas dish towel as a makeshift tourniquet. Lightheaded and embarrassed, we raced to the emergency room where five stitches, a heavy bandage and giggling hospital staff awaited. Even to this day, nearly seven years later, I look down at the scar and remind myself never to be too cocky and try to leave the real parenting to professionals.