And we were always late. (Hmm, wonder where I get that from...)
One particular day, we were running late to baseball practice (as usual). Trying to get out the door with all my brother's baseball stuff. Not to mention my brother and myself.
This was my Dad's weekend so he was driving us.
Now, my Dad can only hear out of one ear - his left ear. He doesn't tell people as I guess he doesn't want anyone to know. He's good at reading lips so you'd really never know.
So, we are all piling into the car. My brother jumps into the front seat and slams the door. As I am opening the back door to climb inside, Dad starts the car and takes off. He drives over my foot - my right foot.
It was like time slowed down, everything was in slow motion.
I looked at the car driving away. I looked back at my foot. I looked back at the car, then back at my foot.
My brain was having a hard time understanding what my eyes were seeing. I suddenly understand. That's my foot you just drove over!
What felt like an eternity but was really probably just eight seconds, I realized what happened and screamed like a banshee.
Looking in the rear view mirror, my dad also realizes what happened and he immediately reverses the car and jumps out to see how bad I'm hurt.
Dad: Shelly! Oh my gosh! Are you okay? I thought you were in the car! I'm so sorry.
Me: *Crying.* No, I'm not okay, Dad! You just ran over my foot!
Dad: Expletive! Expletive! Expletive!
Me: *Still crying.*
About this time, our next door neighbor who doesn't give two flying acorns about us, comes over to ask if I am okay. (I'm on to you, lady! You just want some good gossip. Go back inside, you mean hag!)
Dad: She hurt her foot.
Mean hag: *Feigning concern.* Are you okay, dear? I saw what happened.
Dad: *Running hand over his face.* We'll get her checked out. She'll be okay. (To me.) Alright, we'll take your brother to practice, then we'll head to the urgent treatment center. Let me help you in the car.
So, Dad helps me into the backseat, then dives into the front seat. (This time he makes SURE I am in the car before driving off. *Ahem.*)
After dropping my brother off at practice, we head to the urgent treatment center.
Dad keeps looking at me in the rear view mirror asking if I am alright. He looks like someone stole his lunchbox as I can tell he feels horrible about running over my foot.
At this point, I am not longer crying as my foot now has a dull ache but not a sharp shooting pain as I had initially.
Upon limping into the urgent treatment center and filling out the forms, we sit and wait for us to be called back.
(Once we are back in the room waiting on the doctor) Dad: *Shifting nervously from foot to foot.* Um, Shelly. Let's not tell the doctor I ran over your foot with the car.
Me: *Looking at my foot, then looking at Dad.* Dad, I'm wearing white Keds. You can see the tire marks. I think it's pretty obvious.
At this point, Dad looks like he is going to hurl. I don't know if he thinks they will cart him off to the big house for running over my foot or what.
The doctor comes in and takes a look at my foot. After an x-ray, miracle of all miracles, he confirms it is sprained, but not broken. *Whew.* He tells me I need to stay off it for a while and gives me some crutches to use.
On Monday, at school, everyone wants to know what happened to my foot. You can imagine how funny folks thought this was. This was such an awesome thing to happen my senior year. One for the books I imagine.
Well, at least I earned some street cred.
Okay, I'm lying about the last part. But it did make for spinning a good yarn.