“Ok! It’s time to play the rolling game!” yells Dad from the living room floor.
“Eee the rolly game!” my platinum blond Barbie doll sister squeals.
The rolling game consisted of my 230 lb father lying on the living room floor pretending to be passed out. My sister and I would then be tasked with the duty of moving his body from the living room, past the dining room, through the kitchen and finally to the door.
Too much to ask of a seven year old and her four year old sister? Probably.
The rolling game had its pros and cons. Pro: It was fun. During the time in your childhood where you interpreted every adult body as your own personal jungle gym to climb onto, swing off of, kick and torture, it was epic.
Con: It was difficult, and weird. I mean, none of my other friends had ever heard of the rolling game?
Me: “Ok, I forget what to do first. Daddy, what do we do first?”
Dad (eyes closed): “Shhh, I’m not supposed to talk in the rolling game – you know that.”
Me: “Urgh. Ok, Lys take Daddy’s arms and I’ll take his legs.” (This ties back to “I’m the oldest, so what I say goes” disease).
After several minutes of pulling and tugging my sister and I realize that it’s called “the rolling game” for a reason – that we needed to roll him out of the room instead of simply tugging on his ligaments.
So that’s what we did. Leg over, arm under, roll, leg over, arm under, roll, leg over, arm under and roll. We conducted the same repetitious movements, over and over, until either we reached the door or we were too exhausted to go any further. But, when we did reach the door a great sense of pride and accomplishment came over us.
Not only did my father provide us with an activity for bonding and forced us to learn how to work together to get a task done, but now he could sleep easy knowing that we could maneuver his body to the door if the house was ever engulfed in flames or filled with a poisonous gas.
