I was minding my own business on the couch. I was laying down, enjoying a little down time after a very active day. My eyes were closed because I just couldn't take the adventures of the Octonauts anymore. Seriously, I am starting to despise that show. My son loves it so when I need some quiet, boom, I turn it on and recharge my batteries.
I was trying to work out the rest of the week in my head. Where I had to be, what I had to do, would Hossmom be coming home late from work and of course, the zombie drill. This is where I debate which room in the house would be safest if the zombie hoard descends on us. A brilliant idea hit, the roof, that is where we must go. But I would have to have plenty of ammunition on the roof at all times. I have to put that in budget. Zombies don't climb. I've seen them swim but they are notoriously bad climbers.
This is what I was doing, with my eyes closed, possibly napping, when a 4 year old toddler flew off the top rope of the couch and landed with both knees straight on my crotch. I sensed something was wrong with the Force midway through his jump and my slow reflexes didn't let me respond in time. I was lucky this time, he mostly got the top half and not the very vulnerable lower half. However, it was enough to make me jump up with an "oomph" and ask him very politely--"What the hell, little man?"
I told this story to Hossmom. She didn't believe me. She says that I tell her that I get hit in the balls a lot and that she never gets hit in that region. I explain to her the nature of ball gravity. An object in flight will always change trajectory and aim for balls if at all feasible. Hasn't she watched any soccer matches? Seriously, this is grade school stuff. She still didn't believe me. I said she would if she wasn't a woman. That brought on all kinds of "hear me roar, I am woman" stuff.
A few days pass. I have not been hit in the junk in that time so I'm getting a little jumpy from the impending doom that I know is coming.
I'm in the kitchen cooking dinner for the family. I time it so that dinner is on the table when Hossmom gets home. It's one of those things that I do that insures her that I am the best husband anywhere and that she will never do any better than me and if she did, he probably wouldn't have an awesome zombie plan like I do. So her very survival depends on her staying married to me.
Little Hoss is home from school and was watching T.V. before she decideds to head into the kitchen and tell her dad how awesome he is. She does this often because I have trained her to think that I am the most awesome person that ever existed. I am sure she will get out of this when she is a teenager so I'm soaking up as much of it as I can.
"Dada is awesome!" she says.
"Yes, I am." I reply. Why deny the truth?
"Dada is stronger than anything!"
"Yup." In her world, I am stronger than anyone because I can pick up the trash. And in my defense, we produce a ton of trash here. I am practically superhero strong.
"Dada is stronger than all the monsters!"
"All the monsters!" I say. I reassure her that dad can indeed eat monsters and poop unicorns. It makes her world safe and happy.
"Nothing can hurt Dada!" she exclaims.
"Nothing baby! Well, except when I get hit in the junk."
You see my mistake there? My over confidence as I bask in my daughter's adulation? I planted the idea, I have doomed myself.
Without hesitation and without missing a beat, she bitch slaps my balls.
I'm not talking about a nice gentle tap, which can still be painful. I'm not talking poor aim, hitting maybe more to the top where at least my gut has an opportunity for protection.
I'm talking about how a pimp backhands his hookers if they are holding out of him. I'm talking about how a person backhands a tennis ball. Right on target to, lower right side. Square contact, perfect follow through, perfect target tracking. She smacked clean square in the right ball. Hard.
I double over immediately. "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" is the only sound I make. I stumble over to the sink to get some support before I fall over, dropped by my 5 year old daughter.
I can't even get a sentence out.
She starts cackling like the wicked witch of the west and runs away screaming "I got him! I got him!"
I can't help it, I start laughing, too. I have to appreciate the set-up. I have to admire the entire diabolical plan to get me over confident and distracted. To make me forget that these are my children and not some fairy princess on a white pony that sits with her feet on the floor and always eats her dinner. This is my Little Hoss. Well played young girl, well played.
Sometime later and after some good quality lunges, Hossmom finally gets home.
"What did you guys do today" she asks.
"Yes, Little Hoss, tell mommy what we did today." I respond.
"I hit Daddy in the junk!" she says.
I present you with the prosecution's star witness.