One Afternoon

The living room was my favorite room in the house. Not because we had an amazing TV, or any special feature, but because it had tall ceilings. I was eight years old and was just beginning my long obsession with gymnastics. My older sister Sara and I had recently begun gymnastics classes at a local gym, and our coaches' excitement about our talent only fueled our fire. We decided we could flip faster and higher. We also had a special talent of using any piece of furniture as a beam or vault.

Our other sister Julia was never very athletic and was a little envious of our new hobby. One afternoon, she decided to get in on the fun and let us teach her how to do a back handspring. Since our parents were gone, we quickly converted the living room into a gym, complete with couch cushions as mats.

A half hour later, Julia had worked up the confidence to try a backhandspring on her own and successfully jumped over and backwards until she crashed on her knees. Sara and I high fived and congratulated each other on being the best coaches ever. "C'mon! Do it again!". With our encouragement, she got back up, swung her arms over her head, and flipped to her head. This time there was no high five's as she immediately began crying and screaming. Sara, as she always did, told Julia to "C'mon, quite being a baby. Gymnasts get hurt all the time." Besides, she flipped on cushions, how bad could it be?

She continued her crying while holding her left arm, and I constantly checked the clock to see how much longer till our parents got home. I wouldn't admit it, but I was a little scared. I was proud of myself though, because I knew that we should put ice on her arm, like my coaches put ice on my injuries. I went to the kitchen, but couldn't find an ice bag, so I simply grabbed the ice bin, took it to the living room and expertly instructed her to stick her arm in it.

Three hours later, our parents arrived to the same scene: Sara and I nervously biting our nails, and Julia with her arm still in the ice bin. I was even smart enough to fill it back up with ice as it melted, not allowing her to remove her arm. "It's not broken!" Sara and I insisted to our parents. And of course "We weren't doing gymnastics in the living room! She fell...." went our lame excuses.

We received punishment enough by sitting in the emergency room for four hours as we waited for her to receive her cast. We also had to explain to the doctor why her arm was red, irritated and frozen through. My mom told the story to the coaches at our gym, and I'm pretty sure I saw her cover a laugh. We were then given a stern warning: "Ice should be twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off...and never teach a back handspring until you're a coach!"