My two children are prime examples of contrast. Though they both come from the same stock, they have talents that lie in completely different areas. For example, 5YO is great at reading, and 8YO is fabulous at math. 5YO is good at soccer, and 8YO is good at baseball. 5YO is an awesome dancer, and 8YO is…not. This story will primarily be told in pictures, because pictures are worth a thousand words, and I truly have no words for this shit. For real. So, without further ado, let me share with you what happened with 8YO…in pictures.

8YO, rocking out to Guitar Hero. Or at least wearing the guitar itself. He’s quite good.

8YO in his uniform. Go Brewers!

He goes to gym class while he’s in school. PE in full effect! YEAH BOY! (Public Enemy reference to all you folks who know who that is.)

Sometimes the kids do regular exercise and activities in gym, like jumping jacks. You know, like we used to do, only with less short-shorts wearing coaches.

Sometimes, however, the kids do other forms of exercise in gym. Like, for example, dance. Dance is considered to be an excellent way to perform aerobic exercise, and many people don’t think you look like an extra from “Fame” when you prance around on the floor.

Anyway, on Tuesday, the gym class was apparently involved in some interpretive dance, of which 8YO was a very active participant. He decided to try a move like this:

but wound up doing something more like this:

or this:

and ended up like this:

which led to this, at the CareNow clinic the next day:

You see, that dance move he whipped out involved him jumping, spinning in the air, and crossing his legs before landing in what can only be described as a move rejected by N’Sync for being too hardcore. Hwe tried to bust a move, and busted his ass instead. X-rays at the clinic showed this:

(Word – I got the X-rays and totally stiefed them. “Stiefed” is the combination of “steal” and “thieve”, with some ghetto flavor.) That little piece of bone that I’m pointing to? ‘Tis broken. Yes. He broke his ankle doing a dance move that he must’ve learned from watching a drunken wallaby fight with a pogo stick. So now, instead of this:

he’s got this:

and this:

and of course, this.

Nicely done, 8YO. The next four weeks will be joyous, as I carry you around, getting you into and out of cars, the shower, and everything else, all while you forget that you’re actually injured and try to do damn-near everything you were doing before you went all Ralph Macchio with the leg. Thank you, my son. I look forward to holding my breath with every little step you take.

Four weeks. It’s gonna feel like this: