After a great weekend with family and friends, our trip was nearing an end.  The car was packed, the kids were all in their places, we were ready to go.  Ten hour drive home, here we come!

I started the car and drove a hundred feet down the road, when a young voice echoed from the third row.  “I cannot get my seat belt buckled.”  No worries, that’s that kind of things dads are made to fix.

Pulling over, I circled the car and walked over the grass that was wet with morning dew.  Climbing into the second row, I shimmied my big man sized body halfway over the seat, so that I could help the child in the third row.

My body still draped over the second row headrest, I identified the problem.  The belt needed some additional slack by pulling on the top of the seat belt.  I tried to pull and the seat belt resisted my effort.

I hoisted my body up, positioned my foot on the seat for leverage, and reached once again for the seat belt.  Resisting again, I pulled harder.  That’s when my shoe, wet with morning dew, slipped on the seat.  With the combined force of my body and gravity, my frame crashed into the rear headrest.

Striking under my left rib cage, I felt like Rhonda Rousey had just kicked me in the chest.  My ribs felt like a bag of chips, popped, and freshly crushed.  My heart and lungs yelped.  I let go of the seat belt, faintly gasped, and slouched onto my knees.  I was terribly short on breath and my vision was cloudy.  Pain throbbed from under my ribs.  My mind raced, “Dear God, is my heart palpitating?  Is a rib sticking out my back?”  The family initially chuckled after my strange noise and apparent antics, then suddenly they realized I might really be hurt.  A chorus of concerned questions of “Are you okay?” mixed with an uncomfortable silence emanated from all corners of the car.

“Get a grip, man!  You have a job to do!”  Although I still could not really breath or talk, I waived off concerns.  I yanked the seat belt free and buckled in my child.  Holding my gut, I stumbled around the car and got behind the wheel.

Turning the ignition, I saw through the pain and only the road ahead of me.  I’m a dad.  I drive.  It’s what I do.  Ain’t no broken rib nonsense gonna derail the Dad Train.  100 feet down.  10 hours of driving to go.  Vacation was over and this dad had to do what a dad has to do.  Drive.