I think it's good to have children for the simple reason they keep you humble.

Sure, for a few glorious years, they build you up as if you were queen of the universe. They cry when you leave them. They throw their arms around you when you return. It's just great.

And then, they start to see the real you.

"Mommy," says Erika in the checkout line at Target, "you have a big pimple."

Yes, Erika. Thank you, darling. I am well, well, past adolescence, and yet, there it is. Big as life.

"How long are you going to be gone?" asks Alec, when I remind him my sisters and I are taking Grandma to New York for the weekend to see the Rockettes. "Can't you be gone for, like, a month? It's better when it's just Daddy at home."

Thanks, son. I'll miss you, too.

And then there's this startling realization. I am a man -- according to my Florida's driver's license. The kids discovered this when they were analyzing why I don't have any wrinkles in my postage-stamped size photo.

For years, apparently, I have been "M" instead of "F." I always wondered why cashiers gave me funny looks -- I thought it was the haircut. So now it's time to renew my license, and I am trying to explain to the DMV that I have not had a sex change operation.

Ignorance was bliss.