I believed him right up until his hair was on fire

This morning, I'm hanging frames in my new apartment. I brace myself, and push my bed away from the wall, not taking into account my wool socks (it's a basement apartment) sliding against the floor.  

Nosedive. Right into my mattress. I didn't even have the time (or the reflexes) to catch myself. My eyes well up, and a couple of seconds later, my nose starts to bleed. I'm sitting on the couch, with a frozen chicken breast on my nose, telling my sister my most recent mishap.  

"You seriously are the clutziest person I know!" she types in a text.  

I'm not going to argue with her. Ever since I was a little girl, I've been falling down, scraping my knees, banging different limbs, and knocking stuff over. I've become accustomed to finding weird bruises in weird places and shrugging them off. Someone who doesn't know me that well will sometimes see a multicoloured bruise and recoil in horror.  

Them: "WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR LEG?"  
Me: "What? Oh. That....Yeah. I'm not really sure. Could have happened when I brushed up against that drawer at work a couple days ago. Could have been the time I banged it getting out of the shower. Or when I slammed the car door on it yesterday. BUT DOESN'T IT LOOK LIKE JESUS?"  

Ever since I can remember, my dad has been blaming my clutziness on my mom. He'll smile, shake his head, and say "Wow, you really got that from the Weber side." "Clutzy like your mother." "You and your mom are twins."  

Then he'll go on to tell the story about when he took her on a hike up a mountain on their anniversary for a romantic picnic and she fell all the way down.  

"She just tumbled down, ass over tea kettle." Miraculously, she wasn't hurt. That's the gift I guess we'd been given, Ma and I. Bruises, scrapes, cuts - all signs of our one genetic downfall - but SO FAR my clutziness has not lead to any serious injuries. KNOCK ON WOOD.

And I always believed my dad. 

While stumbling on the sidewalk in front of hundreds of people during Canada Day celebrations, I'd think "goddamn you mother!"  

While running from first base to second and trying to ignore the snickers coming from my team's bench during baseball games I'd curse the woman who'd given me the gift of clutziness. 

"You run like a sack of hammers falling down a set of stairs. Just like your mother," my dad has said on more than one occasion.  


Aww, thanks Pop. Warms the heart.  


Lately, though, I've been starting to think I'm doubly cursed.  


Little drops of blood on the floor of my dad's workshop.  


"Oh, I cut myself yesterday."  


Curse words echoing through the kitchen.  


"OWWW! I pinched my hand!"  


Then one day he set his hair on fire. (Although I'm sure he'll blame me for this one.)  


He was staying with me last weekend, helping me set up my new digs. I lit a candle on the ledge of the bathroom sink.  


Laying in bed, I heard "Oh my god! Kate! Your candle just singed my head!"  


While brushing his teeth, he'd leaned over to drink directly from the tap and poof! Let's just say his bald spot is a little bigger now.  

I will admit, I've lit other people's hair on fire before (don't ask,) but never my own. 

I rushed into the bathroom to find TONS of burned hair on the floor and in the sink. The candle was doing nothing to quell the scent of burnt hair.  


Once I confirmed he was ok, the laughter started. 

And it hasn't stopped. 

With a mom who tumbles down mountains and a dad who lights his hair on fire, let's just say I'll never be a prima ballerina.