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E very proud parent remembers all of his child's firsts -- first word, first step, first call to 911.

Jack falls down a lot. Like many kids, he progressed from awkward and tentative steps to running full blast almost overnight. Unfortunately, his balance and coordination haven't quite caught up yet, and as a result, he wipes out an average of about a dozen times a day. I usually hear a little thump as he flops onto our unforgiving hardwood floors, accompanied by his squeaky voice casually saying, “Daisy.”

“Daisy” is his abbreviation for “whoops-a-daisy,” which is what my wife and I always said following one of the many total body collapses he had when he was learning to walk. When he first started saying it, he was very emphatic, echoing his obvious distress at falling down. As his walking developed, and he got the hang of safely hitting the ground, his “daisy” became more and more relaxed, so that most of the time he delivers it in such a blasé fashion that it almost seems like an after-thought.

I heard a loud ka-thump, followed by a long silence ... He wasn't making any sound. He wasn't moving.

I've become so accustomed to his “daisy” that when I hear him tumble, as long as he gives me that all-clear codeword, I don't rush over to check on him. He's usually back up on his feet in the time it takes me to lift my head and look his way. As a result, I was not at all prepared when, one morning, I heard a loud ka-thump, followed by a long silence. I waited a second, and then two more before I looked over to where Jack was sprawled face down in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen. His little right hand was clutching his toy tractor. He wasn't making any sound. He wasn't moving.

I jumped up and ran across the room. I must have said the usual lines like, “You okay? Fall down?,” but I think I realized that this was serious enough to already know the answer to that question. “Daisy?” I asked. He was just frozen there, arms splayed out at his sides, holding his head up a half an inch or so off of the ground, his breath coming in shallow little bursts. I hooked my hands under his arms and carefully lifted him from the floor.

As soon as he was being held upright, his mouth opened and he started to wail. This was not the pinched-my-fingers-in-the-drawer crying, nor was it the bumped-my-head-on-the-coffee-table crying. This was the no-Dad-I'm-serious-I'm-in-pain crying. I very gingerly turned him around and I could see that his face was burning red, and huge tears were streaming down his chubby cheeks. It took a moment for me to even notice that half of his forehead had become swollen, and that there was a bleeding gash right above his left eye. A severe red line ran from his scalp straight down to his jaw making it look like he had been slashed with a knife.

I was so shocked to see my baby injured that it took a few seconds for me to figure out what had happened. I looked at the awful slash on his face and then down at the floor and I realized that he must have tripped and rammed his face onto the corner of the doorframe at full speed. It was a miracle that he didn't knock himself out cold.

Jack was howling bloody murder, so I tried to calm him with reassurances of his safety. That's when I noticed that still he had a mouthful of his snack-time cheese. I was terrified that with all of his crying, he was going to choke, so I tried frantically to get him to spit it out into my hand, and when that failed, I stuck my fingers in and dug at it until it dropped out onto the counter.

It's difficult to remember exactly what I did next. I know I made sure that his pupils both looked normal, and that I tried to put a wet cloth against his head, which he would have none of. I also placed a panicked call to my wife Loraine at work, who told me to call 911 and that she would be home immediately.

I had previously called 911 three times in my life, two times to report traffic accidents that I had witnessed and once to report a fist fight in the street. I felt like a good citizen those times, but this time I was filled with a mixture of fear, confusion and guilt. As the first wave of shock and adrenaline started to wear off, I began to feel incredibly guilty, going over in my mind what had happened and wondering if it had been my fault or if there had been something else I should have done. I was terrified that somehow the 911 dispatcher was going to blame me for what had happened.

I t only took a few minutes for the EMS truck to pull up in front of the house, but it felt a lot longer than that. Jack had calmed down considerably and finally let out a feeble “daisy.” I've never been so relieved to hear that word. He was attentive and aware and seemed to be getting back to his normal self. We stood in front of our big dining room mirror to survey the damage, and he didn't seem too freaked out by it. I was as pale as a ghost. He let me wipe the blood from his forehead and I was relieved to see that I had vastly overreacted to the sight of the blood. There was still a gnarly inch-long gash, but once the blood was wiped away, it looked less like a cut and more like a serious friction burn.

Jack and I met the two female EMS workers at the door and invited them inside. I could tell right away by the way they greeted Jack that they knew he was going to be fine. We moved to the dining room, where the light was better, and one of the paramedics suddenly realized that they were tracking snow and ice all over the floor. I reassured her that it wasn't a problem.

They took a closer look at Jack and cleaned up his wound. They offered to give us a ride to the hospital if we wanted, but they were sure that he would be just fine and that his goose-egg wouldn't need stitches. I briefly considered taking them up on the offer, because I had never been in an ambulance and it might be kinda fun to ride in one knowing that it wasn't an immediate matter of life and death, but I knew that my wife wouldn't appreciate coming home to a note on the fridge saying that we'd gone for a joyride to the emergency room.

The EMS ladies stuck around for a few more minutes, ostensibly to make sure that he was walking and talking fine, but it looked like they had found themselves charmed by the boy, pointing out his cute sweater and tickling him under his chin. I finally put Jack down after at least 20 minutes of protective papa bear hugs and he happily trundled off to play with his toys. One of the paramedics noticed that he had a fire truck, a garbage truck and a tractor, but no ambulance, and they both pretended to be insulted over the slight.

Once they were satisfied that Jack was okay, and they had enjoyed as much playtime with Jack as they could, the women said goodbye and headed back to the station. I guess it was better for my wife to come home and not find an ambulance parked out front. She was of course quite upset and smothered the boy in hugs and kisses. Loraine always says that any time he has a serious fall or brush with danger, it takes six months off of her life. I used to laugh that suggestion off as parental paranoia, but now I'm not so sure. I think it might be time to invest in some crash helmets and bubble wrap.