As I sat in the chair of the Emergency Room, with our middle daughter hooked up to blood pressure and heart rate monitors, her nose packed in ice, I wondered if the nurse could read my mind.
Did my daughter just say the word "one?"
I looked across at her father who I could tell was also processing the word "one."
Really a one! Did you just say one?!
I kept my cool though.
One... because I'm sure there are cameras in these rooms.
One... because the nurse was writing down everything we were saying.
One... because our family friend, a local doctor, was on his way to the hospital right as those fateful words were being spoken.
So let me back up.
Sunday was going to be uneventful. It was going to be a perfect, lazy day.
Our eldest was leaving for college, so we got up late, enjoyed a big breakfast together and then she was on her way.
I had a list of to-do's a mile long.
Finish our taxes.
Write my weekly "Telling Tales" column.
Take a quick walk at the park followed by an even quicker grocery run.
And maybe read a book by the fire. The last fire for probably a very long time.
I skipped the taxes and the column, and right after Madison pulled out of the driveway, I gathered my two youngest for a run at the park.
Within 15 minutes into my perfect, lazy day at the park, I pulled my ear buds out of my ears and ran towards Zoe and Neill.
Both were screaming.
When I finally got to them, Zoe's nose was bleeding. Seems while racing to show her brother how to do pull ups, she hit her nose against the bars.
"I heard it crack," she was wailing.
Her brother looked on horrified. "Her nose is swelling. I'm sure it's broken."
I didn't know which one of them would faint first.
Now let me say right here, I'm not an alarmist parent. In fact, on a scale of one to ten, I'd say I'm a one.
Having weathered almost two decades of parenting at this point, I'm definitely a card-carrying member of the "shake it off" group.
Have a cough, take some NyQuil and honey and you'll be fine by morning.
Got a splinter, get me a needle and some hot water to sterilize it, and you won't feel a thing after the first prick.
I'm one of those moms that swears she can feel a fever with her bare hands, which comes in handy since I lost my thermometer somewhere between child number two and three.
So when they both insisted it was broken, I decided it probably wasn't and drove home instead.
But the painful, anguished moans (from both of them) continued as did the judgmental stares. Their father, who I'd say is a five on a scale of one to ten of alarmist parenting, agreed with them that this required an ER visit.
So in an effort to redeem myself, I phoned a friend, a doctor, who offered to run up to the hospital to check her out.
You can imagine my horror, therefore, when we finally made it to the room and the nurse removed the ice, looked up her nose and then asked "from a scale of one to ten, ten being the most pain you could possibly imagine, what would you say you are feeling right now?"
With tears in her eyes, my middle daughter, stared up at her and emphatically stated... "a one."
One... as in one thousand dollar bills I'd soon be paying the lovely folks at Tennova.
One... as in one gift certificate I would need to buy tomorrow for our friend who had given up his Sunday.
One... as in one more "Telling Tales" column that I would now be able to write!
And while her nose was thankfully not broken, as I sit here writing my column, in front of the last fire of the season, I remain grateful for yet one more... uneventful Sunday.
To read more of Angel and Becky's columns go to www.wilsonlivingmagazine.com