Steps. In Four Easy Steps.

Steps.

Not as easy as they look.

We used to live in this cool older home that had three sets of stairs, one leading from the basement to a landing, then four more steps into the kitchen area, then eight up to the master bedroom.

As the young offspring ascended these each morning, the sound effects were telling. Step, step, step, step, step, miss-bang-'Aw, dangit!'

They had bruises on their shins weekly, due to those four middle steps. The basement stairs got their rhythm going, the upstairs steps were never a problem, but those troubled middle four...unnavigable. 

I'm an evil parent to admit that I laid in bed laughing. The kids laughed, too, in an 'I'm in pain once again, but it's funny' way. It was the family joke that none of us could go up steps. Going down was never a problem, only on the return.

The children came by it honestly, poor dears. I initiated the family pattern by soundly tripping up a set of steps on my wedding day. What was to be a grand entrance for this bride didn't turn out too swell. I remember trying to smile radiantly as the frantic thought, 'Holy cow, there's a lot of relatives on his side,' went through my mind. The last thing I thought was, 'That must be his Cousin Rick, the one he grew up w---' and then I was falling, falling, falling. A mad stumble, but I didn't eat floor. Recoverable? By no means, the wedding throng saw it all.

We now live in a home without steps, so the possibility of gauging where we're all at with the family curse is slim. Put us in a cabin with a staircase for a weekend, and within an hour it would be evident. My daughter claims a stepping disorder at her high school some days. My sons, now adults, no longer mention any missteps to the general public.

And me?

I just take the elevator.



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