The Great Kitchen Roller-Skating Catastrophe

Christmas morning is so exciting when you are a child. The magic that fills the air and the anticipation of that jolly guy coming down a chimney—even when you don’t have one—bringing gifts of all kinds, hoping you get that one present you wrote on your list.

This one Christmas when I was 11 years old, I did receive that gift: my brand-new roller skates. I was in awe. My sister also received roller skates and she was just as excited as me. We had dreams of being roller-skating superstars, but neither one of us knew how to skate.

Being that it was winter and snowy, we couldn’t just run outside and try them, so we had to put them away until the weather cooperated. We just stared at the boxes and wished for better weather.

One day during our winter break, our parents were at work. Me being the eldest and quite responsible for 11 years old, I was in charge that day. Times were different back then, and while parents and kids alike felt a comforting sense of safety that let older children run the house, looking back now, leaving a house with two impatient young girls unsupervised with a pair of brand-new roller skates was probably proof of the exact opposite. 

We were just hanging around the house, watching the snow fall and wishing we could skate.

A brilliant idea occurred: why couldn’t we just skate in the house? Sure, we had been told that roller skates were strictly outdoor toys and that the kitchen was off-limits for wheels. But looking at the snow piling up outside, I figured we could bend the rules just this once, convincing myself that if we were careful, no one would ever have to know. 

I shared the idea with my sister and we ran to get our boxes. We put the skates on in the carpeted living room and made our way to our small linoleum-floored kitchen. The moment my skate hit the linoleum, I started wobbling, grabbed onto the table, and fell. It was a lot harder than I thought. Not wanting to be discouraged, I got back up and held onto the table, but my feet kept shuffling and I couldn't find my balance.

My sister, on the other hand, was a natural. She was skating all over the kitchen in the tiny space we had.

Feeling frustrated that I couldn't get the hang of it, I retreated to the safety of the carpeted living room and announced I was going to the bathroom. Inside, a little wave of anxiety hit me. Why couldn't I control my feet? How come my sister, who was younger, was already gliding around effortlessly while I stumbled?

I made my way back to the kitchen. Just as I was crossing the threshold—with one foot on the kitchen floor—my sister decided to be her typical, helpful self.

She came up behind me and shouted, "I’ll help you!" With that, she gave me a push. I wobbled back and forth—proving once and for all that unlike those famous Weeble Wobble toys, I could indeed fall down. And down I went. 

However, this wasn’t an ordinary fall. As I landed, my left arm twisted backward, and I heard a sharp crack in my wrist. Panic set in immediately as I started screaming, knowing instantly that something was broken.

I yelled at my sister and probably hurled a few choice names her way. But now what? My parents were at work, and I needed help. As the reality of the situation set in, I remembered the golden rule I had broken: roller skates were strictly outside toys, and you never roller-skate in the kitchen.

Frantically crying, I told my sister to call Grandma. We got her on the phone, and through my heavy sobbing, I gave my official version of events: my sister had wanted to roller-skate, I had tried to warn her we weren't allowed to do it in the house, but she put her skates on anyway, told me she didn't have to listen to me, pushed me down, and broke my arm. Even through the intense pain, I was determined not to take the blame.

Through all the chaos, I hadn't realized a major snowstorm was raging outside until Grandma mentioned it. True to form, my grandmother came straight to my rescue. Looking back now, I feel a pang of guilt—why couldn’t I have just listened in the first place?

Shortly after my grandmother arrived, my parents made it home as well. Terrified that I was going to be in monumental trouble, I braced myself. Instead, my parents rushed me out into the snowstorm and straight to the hospital.

The X-rays confirmed I had fractured my wrist and would have to wear a cast for eight long weeks. True to form, right there in the hospital, I looked right at my parents and explained that it was all my sister's fault because she had connived me into it.

My parents must have known I was trying to shift the blame, but they didn’t let on. They simply listened to my elaborate story and calmly assured me that roller skates were never to be used in the house. 

Looking back, a lingering trace of guilt always stayed with me for trying so hard to pin the whole disaster on my sister when we were equally to blame. That eight-week stint in that hard cast was punishment enough, and between the lingering pangs of a guilty conscience and the sheer terror of breaking another bone, I quietly hung up my wheels for good and never roller-skated again. 

-Jackie