KC Home Dad

Tuesday, January 16, 2007


Well, it finally happened.
My daughter punched me in the baby-maker.

Now, in all fairness to her, I kind of asked for it. One of our favorite things to do is wrestle. I grab her, tickle her and otherwise rough her up. She kicks and slaps and giggles to get away. I always keep a look out for those flailing arms and legs to protect myself, which I have done very well at so far, thank you very much.

But, since I allow her to hit me while we're playing and I always overact my pain, she thinks this is funny.
I'm not laughing anymore.

Yesterday, she closed her fist and struck with all her might at the point on my body that was just the right height of her fist. I was not paying attention this time and I paid dearly for it. I immediately hit the floor, grabbed my crouch and started gasping for air. For some reason a croutch shot also knocks all the air out of your lungs. Scientists should study this.

My Princess (that's our 4 year old daughter) just stared at me smiling thinking I was just doing my usual overacting. Finally she asks, "Are you okay daddy?" "NO!" I barked back, "you don't hit daddy there, okay." "Okay," she replied meekly.

The pain slowly subsided and I sat up wiping the sweat off my brow (again, more scientific study needed). "Sorry daddy," Princess said now clearly realizing she hurt me. "Just don't do that again, alright," I said.

"Alright... can we play tackle now!"