Published on January 21st, 2015 | by Richard Black0
Four Things I’ve Learned From Raising a Child and a Lot of Other Stuff About Testicles
If I’ve learned one thing about over the past four years it is that raising a child makes people bald. This is more than likely evolution at work to make men unattractive and reduce the likelihood that they will leave their family in search of a hotter younger woman with no children.
If I’ve learned two things as a father it’s that children unwittingly reduce their parent’s lifespan by encouraging binge eating, massive weight gain and sleep deprivation. Again this is probably evolution’s handiwork so that by the time my daughter hits her teens either her mother or father will pass away to free up scarce resources and foodstuffs.
If I’ve learned three things as a father it’s that raising children involves a lot of injuries for both the parent’s and the children. Even in a well adjusted household where nothing abusive is taking place things happen accidents happen. I’ve never been a fan of physical comedy but its alive and well in my house seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five days a year. there isn’t a single day that goes by when Darcy doesn’t careen into a wall, smash her hand between the toilet seat and the bowl or chip her tooth when she’s drinking water straight from the tap but she’s just the warm up act.
Laura and I regularly incur bodily injury on a daily and sometimes hourly basis. Even the most mundane and seemingly harmless activities become fraught with peril when a four year old is rocketing around the house. A few days ago I was unclogging the toilet only to have Darcy sneak up behind me and announce at 150 decibels that she had SOMETHING REALLY EXCITING TO SHOW ME!!! I yanked the plunger out of the toilet like I was starting a lawn mower, spraying myself, my daughter, the walls, the floor and everything else within five feet in in used toilet paper and urine which was nice. To make the scene complete I slipped on the tile in epic fashion, cracked the back of my head on tub and watched in abject horror as the plunger cartwheeled in the air and landed on my face.
And this I might remind you was an activity that didn’t involve power tools or sharp objects. I prep dinner I say a lengthy prayer pleading for an injury free evening as I chop vegetables while my daughter yanks on my arms and clings to my legs like a barnacle.. I’m not Catholic or particularly religious but if there isn’t a Patron Saint for Avoiding Injury Via Cutlery there should be because that’s who I pray to every night. Fortunately Darcy and Laura don’t seem to mind the occasional diced fingertip in their meals and I don’t have to trim my nails quite as often so it’s a win-win for everyone.
Cleaning up my daughter’s toys is another nightly hazard. Darcy helps of course but she helps in the way four year olds do which is sporadic at best. Tiny figurines and beds and kitchen appliances are still strewn over the house like they were landmines to be stomped, kneeled and slipped upon usually when it’s dark and i[m going down a flight of stairs. I’m not sure who own the company that makes Calico Critters but I’ll bet my pants they’re big players in the nano weapons industry.
I feel compelled to note that these are the injuries I sustain through my own or my daughter’s general negligence and lack of attention, the inadvertent scars and wounds of parenting. When it comes to the pain I incur through my daughter’s actions event’s take on a much creepier and really quite ominous tone.
When she was two Darcy discovered the joy of biting her parents. More specifically she discovered the violent reaction incurred from biting one of her parent’s which happened to be me. The phase didn’t last long but I spent the bulk of a month looking like I had some sort of masochistic midget biting fetish. My arms, legs and a goodly portion of the rest of my body were literally covered in tiny little imprints of my daughter’s teeth. It was not a high point in my life and one in which I spent a lot of time researching how to determine if my daughter was a sociopath.
I’ve never been quite certain what term to use when it comes to the beating I take from my daughter. Parental abuse seems to imply that my parents abused me (which wasn’t the case) or that I’m abusing them (which hasn’t happened…yet). Child abuse is inappropriate as I do not beat my daughter and wildly inaccurate as I’m the person being abused.
I took a quick spin around the interwebs and it turns out that parental abuse is the preferred phrase for an adult who incurs physical injury from their child. The discovery was more than a little anticlimactic and if I weren’t nursing a pair of testicles that have swollen to size of two basketballs courtesy of a regular pounding from my daughter I’d be able to come up with a more witty term but the gut wrenching pain I’m dealing with is really to much to bear.
If there’s a fourth thing I’ve learned from being a parent it’s that small children have an uncanny knack for homing in on a pair of testicles with their feet.
There is really not a day that goes by when Darcy does not gleefully plant a foot or two in my crotch during the four seconds in the day I’ve thoughtlessly left them unguarded. Predator drones have a higher margin of error when striking a target than my daughter has when she cheerfully stomps on my balls like a troupe of women stomping grapes in a vat.
I should know better. It’s really my fault. As a victim of parental abuse I realize that this is precisely what other fathers’ say to rationalize the beatings they take from their children. After years of marriage I’m used to being in the wrong. I’ve accepted the fact, I’ve moved on and am working on turning the negative into a positive.
There are, after all, a lot of other father’s in my position who need my help.
Given the increasing number of stay at home dads with functional testicles I have to believe that this is a growth market and one I plan on aiding for purely altruistic reasons. The fact that my daughter is going to school full time next year and that I might need a job have absolutely nothing to do with my desire, nay my need, to form a support group for other men who incur the slings and arrows and feet from their preschool children.
Once I figure out how to achieve tax deductible status all donations will be tax deductible. For you chincy bastards who can’t cough up more than two bucks for this worthy effort I will also be launching a kickstarter campaign (Richard Black’s Bruised Balls) .
Until then please send me an email if you’re interested in donating and write all checks to Richard Black or cash. Cash by the way is always appreciated although RBBB prefers the kind that folds to the kind that jingles.