Because I donated all my strollers to Goodwill

So I've taken a quick trip around the blogosphere in preparation for writing this post and I've noticed something.

A lot of mommy bloggers are pregnant. Or thinking of getting pregnant. Or very recently completed a pregnancy. I think, maybe, a lot more than usual.

Is there something in the water out here in blogland?

Because I do NOT want to catch it.

The goblins are now 11, 9, and 7, and The Man and I are gleefully counting down the years.

Now, don't misunderstand me. We love the goblins. Love doesn't even seem like strong enough a word for the feelings we have for the goblins. But most of y'all know what I mean. This countdown doesn't mean we love our goblins any less.

It just means that we're looking forward to the day that we'll be able to put a gallon of milk in the refrigerator and go back the next day and still have some milk. Personally, I'm looking forward to the day when I won't have twelve loads of laundry to do. We both fantasize about lazy Saturday afternoons that we'll just pop out for lunch and maybe an art fair, without a worry or a care.

I have friends who have teeny tiny children and itty bitty babies right now... and yes, they're super cute. But I have officially gone from one of those people who feels her ovaries twinge a bit when she sees a little smooshy baby face, to one of those people who oohs and aahs for a minute and then hands the little urchin back to its mommy.

I'm not entirely sure when the switch happened. Because I genuinely remember a few years after Goober had left that sweet little baby phase when I thought having another baby would maybe be nice. I knew we were in over our heads with the three we had, sure.... but babies are so nice.

And leaky.

And loud.

And I don't think I can add any more loud into my life. The goblins are plenty loud all by themselves.

I mean, really... diapers and potty training and spit up and cabinet latches and trying to get a two year old to brush his teeth all the while using a baby voice and speaking about myself in the third person all the time?

"Give mommy the toy, Goblin." "No, Goblin, don't touch the stove!" "Share with the nice little boy, Goblin."

It's just not something I want to repeat again.

I'll be 44 years old when Goober turns 18. And 44 is the new 34, isn't it?