My father and mother stopped over unexpectedly, last night, while my youngest daughter and I were in the middle of an exercise tape.

"What are you doing?"

My youngest daughter placed her hands on her hips and pursed her lips in a very annoyed way.

"It's called Yoga, Papa!"

My father shook his head.

"That's it, now the whole family is screwy."

I don't know if it was because of the late hour, the fact that it was Monday night, or having my quiet time interrupted by a dose of my father's dry sense of humor that had my fur standing on end.

"Hey - I'm just trying to relax - I work hard, too!"

My poor mother.

"Hey - take it easy - he's just kidding, you know!"

No, I didn't.

"Coffee?"

I turned off the tape and - although, they insisted that I finish - there was no way I was going to complete the Yoga lesson, not with clenched teeth and a racing pulse.

"Actually, we on our way home from the doctor's office because your father had an episode at physical therapy, today and we wanted to stop by, hoping that you guys would be home, so that we could the kids, before going home."

Blank stare.

"Now, did you say something about coffee?"

Funny, I've spent most of my adult life taking care of myself, my children, as well as my parents, and I thought I was pretty grown up about a lot of things.

"Oh, yes...um, coffee...sure...but, is Daddy okay?"

I responded like a disrespectful child - in front of my kids, too - and I could have sworn that pouting was involved.

"I should be okay."

My father just turned 70 and has gone through 10 operations, ever since retiring about 4 years ago.

"I told the doctor whatever tests he wants - I love my family and want to be around for my granchildren, a little longer - because, you know I'm like that."

Yes, I know.

"It's just that I have a lot going on in my head, right now, you know."

Don't we all?

"Exactly the reason why I do Yoga."

We finished our conversation over a cup of coffee and some play dough - Mini-me insists it's good therapy, no matter how "really old" you are - and I asked them to stay long enough for my son to get home from baseball practice.

"Is Papa going to be okay?"

I turned and looked deep into my son's blue eyes - the same shade as his Papa's - and smiled.

"You know your Papa."

Blank stare.

"You mean, he's going to make jokes and laugh until the hurt goes away!"

Exactly.