Okay, this isn’t so much a post as it is a miniature contest. Or a cry for help. Make that a scream from the pit of my stomach. Basically, I need your help, you brilliant DadWagon readers, to name a phenomenon.

Here is the phenomenon: Kids, from the time they become mobile, seem to have an unerring instinct for bashing Dad in the balls. With feet, hands, head, robot frogs, books, magic wands, and three-wheeled scooters, they’re like heat-seeking missiles—crotch rockets, if you will—that always manage to find their testicular targets. It often feels like destiny (painful destiny), in that no matter how far away the kid is from you, no matter what kind of soft toy they’re playing with, your balls are in danger.

So, in the vein of the Washington Post Style Invitational, I’d like you to help me name this situation. Points will be given for cleverness, extra points will be given to those who buy me a beer. The winner will receive nothing but the glory that comes from being highlighted on the biggest little dadblog in the world. Post your entries below.