One thing that was never relayed to me before I had children was that my testicles would endure more punishment than a rented mule. Each day, thanks to three hyperactive kids, I suffer a series of unexpected blows directly to the plums. It starts in the morning when one of my children (usually my son) stealthily climbs onto our bed and then without warning jumps straight onto my nuts like some ruthless, miniature version of Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka. Take it from me, a Starbucks triple espresso can’t touch one of my son’s high altitude knee drops to the baby-makers. Then there’s my youngest who’s only eight months old. He loves when I hold his arms up high as he practices standing on my lap. Before long however, he’s joyfully stomping all over my grapes like he’s making wine. Of course there’s also the “daddy’s home” moment when I walk into the apartment after a long day at the office. Like some sort of Jewish ninja, I try to sneakily make my way to the bedroom without being noticed by the kids—but its to no avail. The minute the front door creaks open both my five-year-old daughter and three-year-old son (the human alarm clock I mentioned earlier) come barreling toward me screaming “daddy’s home”. It’s a precious scene until their small yet solid heads collectively collide with my not-so-solid bollocks at high speed. Doubled over in pain, I barely manage to grunt “hello” before they’ve returned to their toys no longer interested in my presence. I mention all of this in the spirit of assisting fathers-to-be who live in blissful ignorance of their testicles’ fates. To these soon-to-be-dads I say: Prepare yourselves. Consider wearing two, or even three pairs of underwear and don’t be ashamed to stuff some socks down there either. At the very least you’ll appear to have the package of a pornstar—even if you’re sporting a couple of marbles. Then again, you could just pop down to Buy Buy Baby and purchase one of my patented Daddy Cups—available this Fall. Your other "little ones" will thank you.
