One of the elements of fatherhood you don’t necessarily see coming is how much blunt-force nutsack trauma it involves. Caveat: I’m not claiming for a second that a thwock to the meat and two veg is in any way comparable to childbirth – but nevertheless, it’s still pretty painful. 

My nearly-two-year-old daughter seems to have a sniper’s eye for nut-shots. I’ve never been kicked in the thigh or the hip, yet every part of my crotch has been smashed countless times by her little feet. When she was learning to walk, she did a Riverdance there. Nappy changes have involved pneumatic stamping-style thunks. And she hit me in the penis with a stick when we went camping. 

She’s currently a huge fan of shouting “Daddy, I hiding!” and running between my legs when I’m making coffee in the morning – but I’m not the tallest of gentlemen, so if I don’t time my tiptoes correctly, about one time in three she’ll whack her forehead right into my trumpet and drums.  

But – after all that – I’m pleased to tell you there *could be* a solution. A company called Fridababy now offers up boxers with a removable cup for dads to protect their pickle and onions from tiny swinging feet.

Billed as the “world’s first Dad-friendly underwear”, the product is apparently all we’ve been looking for. ”The hits keep coming when you’re a dad,” reads the product description. “Head butts, the baby carrier swinging heels, and the good ole Sunday morning bed jump. Parenting really can be a contact sport.”

It’s a nice idea, but at $28 a pair – that’s £22 – unless you want to wear the same pair of undercrackers every day, your bank balance will take more of a hit than your nuts. Plus, due to sod’s law, your kid will just find other ways to accidentally whack you – like getting really good at putting their thumbs through your eyes or something.

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And also, isn’t the occasional knacker-knock part and parcel of parenthood? A man being hit in the balls is obviously hilarious for anyone that witnesses it (particularly if that person had to go through the agony of birthing your child) – and who am I to take that joy from the world?

Even when they’re your own balls, it’s inherently funny – especially when the culprit is two feet tall and you love them with everything you are.