One of those moments...

Someone (I still don't know who the guilty party is) spilled (I know it was an accident, but still) water on the kitchen floor and somehow completely (sarcasm intended) forgot to wipe it up. Poor innocent Me walked happily into my cozy kitchen only to find myself slipping and sliding uncontrollably. I caught myself on the island seconds before the crash-landing that was playing itself out before my eyes. I did twist my ankle and you know...it did hurt. So it really shouldn't be necessary to add a disclaimer about "yelling", so I'll just leave it at that; although please do not judge me or give any validation to my daughters' recollections of the event. As I'm clutching the island for dear life, I (calmly) call out: Who spilled the water?!
I went on to explain (in a measured tone): I twisted my ankle. Could someone help me?
I was immediately surrounded by concerned and loving family members who all (surprisingly) claimed they "had no idea how water wound up on the floor". Fortunately they were more concerned about me than proving their own innocence because at this point I just wanted to be able to safely release my death-grip on the island and sit on my soft and beckoning couch.
Steve, in all his chivalrous glory, offered to carry me. Seriously though, do you think he's noticed the size of my rear end these days?! I politely declined. My self-esteem didn't need that kind of beating. Steve (to his husbandly credit) repeated his offer and poo-pooed my exclamations of whale-dom. Like the brave soul I am, I announced I could make it to the couch vertically. (But thanks for the offer anyway.)

Little man seemed very concerned by this turn of events. He told Steve: Carry Momma, Daddy.
I sweetly (for real) told little man I would be okay; Daddy didn't need to carry me. Then my son, my boy, my baby walked up to me and said: I carry you, Momma.

I know. It was a great moment in motherhood.