My wife bit my head off the other morning.

Not that this is so unusual that I considered it blog worthy, but this time I was actually not guilty of anything. In fact, I was pretty pleased with myself because I had taken it upon myself to do all of the laundry as a surprise for my wife. I’m a bit of a night owl, and in a combination of mania and procrastination from a writing deadline, I washed all the dirty clothes in the house. Six loads worth. She woke up to baskets of folded clothes.

That isn’t why she bit my head off.

Well, the next day, my wife blew up, not in a biting my head off way, but in a “why am I so swollen” way. Huge red splotches covered her body. She itched, was uncomfortable, and couldn’t sleep. Now, you have to understand, my wife is allergic to just about everything. Fish, pollen, grass, water (she’s on special medication: there’s something in tap water she’s allergic to. Without the medication, a shower leaves her looking like she was attacked by a swarm of bees). Me, I have no allergies. I can roll around naked in poison ivy.

Through some detective work, she found out the source of her allergies. Our laundry detergent apparently switched formulas on us, a new color safe bleach alternative. This all led to her having to go to the doctor to do something about the severity of her reaction. The last time her body went so crazy was when we found out that she was pregnant with our second child, which is how we found out we were expecting so early.

It was at this point when the doctor explained that we were going to have to test to see if she was pregnant. You see, my wife got fixed soon after the birth of our second son (and, for the record, she loves it when I refer to her procedure as “getting fixed”. I’m guaranteed not to hear about that one). However, we’ve all heard the stories: how you can have your tubes “fried, tied, and laid to the side and still find yourself pregnant inside” (thank you, my o so supportive brother-in-law). Did I mention that she was two months “late”?

Which was when I got my head bit off.

The merest suggestion of the possibility of more kids put her in a bad mood. She got fixed for a reason. We were pretty set in staying at two. A lot of thought went into the decision. For one thing, the reality of children killed the dream of children. When we first got married, I said that I would like to have five children, enough for a starting basketball squad (ironic considering that I suck at basketball). After our first was born, I told my wife that I would be content with three kids. Then after our second, I informed her that I was done. (She, however, always had the number two in mind and simply waited for me to come to my senses).

The thing about going from two kids to three, is that you have to go from a man-to-man defense to a zone defense. I love my kids, but I know me and I know how much time I can effectively give to my children. Two isn’t dividing my attention and I can usually outsmart two brains. I can still get free babysitters with two, even people VOLUNTEERING to watch my two. The odds greatly decrease once you hit three and I’m not trying to be stuck at home all the time with the kids. Plus, I still cling to the dream of affordable family vacations.

It’s why I have crazy respect for single parents and families who have no other hobbies than breeding.

Not that we wouldn’t have loved a third child, we had merely gotten comfortable with our routine and you know how people get with their plans, especially with the threat of those carefully laid plans being disrupted. Anyway, I give my wife enough reasons to bite my head off with the two that we have.

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