Upon meeting me for the first time, many ask, “What is wrong with your eye?” The answer is simple. It is a mere battle scar from my lack of focus, resulting in a sharp stab to the eye with my bassoon reed. Many cringe at the thought, but I am no stranger to clumsiness.

My accidental nature began at the tender age of one, when I was inspired by my then idol, Superman, to don a cape and fly around the living room. Of course, the hazards of the incredibly sharp corner of the fireplace mantle (and the thought that I could not actually fly), never even crossed my toddler mind. So, I squatted, and with all the gusto and vigor of Clark Kent, I jumped off the arm of the sofa.

Needless to say, I passed my milestone of “first stitches” even before I had even finished teething.

Thus began a long love affair with me and the ER. From accidentally pouring a scalding pot of chili on my face at the age of three, to having to get my finger partially sewn back on after slamming it in the port-o-potty door when I was four, the various strands of grey in the hair of my parents grew out far before their time.

With the announcement of a baby girl on the way, the worries of my parents soon subsided. “It’s a girl,” they said, “and girls do not get injured NEARLY as much as boys do.”

As ornery as my sister is, she proved them wrong in a heartbeat.

Broken bones and stiches galore soon became the norm in the Tipton household, and I have ridden in far more ambulances than I am proud to admit. It only took a matter of time before the staff at the emergency room became very familiar with my family (and our wallets).

Sometimes I feel bad about taking years off of my parents’ lives due to the stress of an injured child, but to be honest, I cannot imagine my life without all of my accidents. I guess for now, I can just be thankful that I have gained some grace, if only just a little.