I don’t like Blogs. Especially for writers. I think that they destroy the writer’s mystique. You don’t need to know what I had for breakfast, how I coordinate my underwear drawer, or what me and my wife fight about (which, as far as any of you are concerned is nothing. We rarely fight. She’s bigger than I am. And crazy. But you don’t need to know that either). … So you won’t be reading about my struggles with premature ejaculation or anorexia or any of the numerous way-too-personal things that I see on other blogs.

That was from my first blog ever. Admittedly, I’ve broken this mandate on numerous occasions. And today is no exception. It starts with a pet peeve of mine: people casually as the most intrusive personal questions.

If you are single, people, well-intentioned or not, feel the need to ask if you are dating or if you have a special someone. If you are dating, you get asked “when are you getting married?” If you are married, you get asked “when are you having kids?” [As an aside, I was only ever asked this one and a half times. The first time I was asked this, I announced to the crowd of interested friends, family, and fellow church attendees, which page of the Kama Sutra me and my new bride was working on. The “half” time I was asked happened when my friend was asked this question. Now, she was sitting right next to me – and had actually just found out she was pregnant – but was asked by someone she barely knew. So I asked if I could answer the question for her. She gave me the nod. So I went on a several minute harangue about their heartache of trying and trying to get pregnant with no success. And how every time the question is asked, it was like the wound being re-opened. But otherwise, thanks for asking. Actually, I’m still at a loss why I didn’t fit in better at that church.]

All of this brings me to the question that we get asked. We’ve been married six years. We have two boys, Reese (Maurice the Second, retroactively making me “Maurice the Great”; age 5) and Malcolm (Malcolm Xavier, who was to be just Malcolm X, but my wife wanted the X to stand for something and she vetoed the name “Xerxes”. The name was also chosen before we knew he was going to be blonde and blue-eyed. Age 4).

(L-R – Malcolm and Reese – the faces of evil)

Let me save you the trouble. No, we aren’t having anymore. No, we weren’t big Malcolm in the Middle fans and aren’t planning on having a Dewey. When we first got married, we talked about having five kids. (Contrary to the rumors, I was not going to name all of the kids after myself. I was going to name the first two BOYS after me – I would have called the third Maurice “Tre” – that way in case something happened to one of them, I’d still have a namesake. Oddly enough, my wife found this objectionable).

Then we had the first boy (Part I and Part II). Five became three. Then we had the second. And we knew we were done. Our working theory became with two kids we could still play man-to-man defense. Any more than that and we’d have to shift to a zone defense. Unfortunately, this meant that one of us had to get fixed.

And it wasn’t going to be me.

Yeah, yeah, call me a sexist all you want. I want to keep the account open. I want to keep the dream alive. Simply put, I live by a code. Like I tell my boys, “no bad touches” – which in my case means no lasers and/or no sharp implements down there. Okay, that and my wife didn’t trust me. For some reason she was convinced that I would fake going to the doctor’s appointment, but would still sit around the house for a weekend “recuperating.” And we’d end up with a Dewey.

Don’t you hate it when I’m procrastinating from starting new projects? You get me destroying the author’s mystique … one humiliating blog at a time.

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