It began like any normal day.

I was minding my business, holding Puppy Dog Tequila like a shield, when Dad suddenly yelled, “GET ‘EM!” and launched himself at me and Jack like a giant, laughing monster.

I screamed. Jack screamed. Dad screamed. It was a chorus of chaos.

Dad tackled us onto the carpet. I tried to escape, but his arms were everywhere. His hands were tickling my ribs. My ribs! My most vulnerable spot! I twisted like a fish on land. Jack was giggling so hard he sounded like a broken squeaky toy.

“This is TOO MUCH,” I yelled, even though I was laughing so hard my soul left my body for a second.

Dad kept going. He was unstoppable. A tickle machine. A menace. A villain. A hero. I couldn’t tell anymore.

I needed help.

I needed backup.

I needed… Mom.

I wriggled free from Dad’s grip like a tiny ninja fueled by desperation and Capri Sun. I crawled across the floor, through the battlefield of limbs and giggles, dragging myself like I’d been wounded in combat.

Dad grabbed my ankle. I shrieked. “NOOOOOOOO!”

I kicked free and sprinted toward Mom’s office — the safe zone, the sanctuary, the Switzerland of our home.

I burst through the door dramatically, hair wild, shirt crooked, breath heavy. Dad and Jack tumbled in behind me like a rolling boulder and its sidekick.

Dad reached for me again.

I reached out my hand to Mom like I was in a movie where someone is hanging off a cliff.

“HELP ME,” I whispered, my voice trembling with the weight of toddler tragedy.

Mom looked up from her work, eyes wide, like she’d just been handed a live grenade made of giggles.

Dad grabbed me around the waist and tickled me again. I screamed-laughed so hard I folded in half like a lawn chair.

Jack jumped on top of both of us. We became a pile — a tangle — a knot of boys and chaos and joy.

Dad was laughing. Jack was laughing. I was laughing and also dying and also having the best time ever.

I reached for Mom again, my tiny hand stretching toward her like she was my only hope.

“Save me,” I gasped, even though I didn’t actually want to be saved.

Because this was the best kind of drama.

The kind where everyone is giggling.

The kind where Dad is silly.

The kind where Mom smiles even though she’s trying to work.

The kind where I get to be the star of the scene.

And as Dad tickled me one more time, I knew the truth:

I would survive this battle.

But only barely.