I have broken the same big toe four times.
Incident #1:
It is the night my sister is born. My parents are at the hospital, and we are being (loosely) supervised by a babysitter. My two older brothers and I decide to play a brilliant game wherein two of us stand on a blanket and the other pulls it out from under us. Levi and I stand on the blanket. Silas pulls it out from under us. Levi's knee lands on my big toe. I find out the hard way that there is nothing a doctor can do for a broken toe. My lifelong hatred of socks begins.
Incident #2:
I am fourteen. Silas pisses me off to the point of violence, as he is wont to do in these days. I kick him as hard as I can in the shin. My kicking form is not ideal, and the toe is broken once more. My anger is not assuaged.
Incident #3:
The place is Karuizawa. Prayer conference, which is the best one because it's short enough that they don't bother planning a kids program. We play floor hockey in the gym all day, and for some reason I am the only one not wearing shoes (possible influence of sock hatred). My toe gets stepped on by a shoe-wearing boy and is broken for the third time.
Incident #4:
We are camping. This really can't be classified as an incident, but more of an inevitability considering the weakened state of my toe. I stand the wrong way on a rock and break my toe again.
I have since managed not to revisit this toe-breaking tradition, but sometimes that ache is still there on days when it rains or when the seasons change. I fear that this saga is not over, as only two of my brothers have broken my toe with their knees, and I must now watch out for the third.
Stay tuned for my next blog, in which I further explore clumsiness in general in search for a cure.
