Last night we had dinner with friends who we don’t see often enough. You see, they are at that stage. The whole having-multiple-toddlers stage. I wish I could say that I have forgotten what that was like, as my youngest child is going to be seven years old this summer (ZOMG SEVEN. HOLD ME), but, no, I remember every single little detail. That look—you know that one? The one that screams “I have not had a hot meal in over 24 months.” I know the look, I wore it. For many, many years.

I don’t wear it anymore. The face I wear now is different.

The stresses I have are more emotional…less physical.

You see, we ran out of the house at 7:30pm, as we do every Sunday. Our oldest, at almost TWELVE (hold me again) is almost ready to babysit. We leave her with her brother and sister for about half an hour on Sunday nights until our weekly babysitter arrives. You see, we are preparing her. And us. Built-in babysitting. Folks, it does not get much better than that.

We arrived all happy-faced with Ticket to Ride in one hand and a bag of giant face-sized cookies in the other hand. We were excited to get down on the floor with the toddlers and have some delicious baby time. Is there anything cuter than trying to decipher baby-speak when the child does not belong to you? Is she saying please? Piece? Pasta? Princess? What did she want me to do to the train? It’s a mystery!

Our friends had the best of intentions—a nice bbq dinner, complete with super fancy lime and spicy dry rub for the corn, Ticket to Ride, dessert and tea. Sounds like a perfect evening, right? Except, of course, for the toddlers. One had an epic meltdown over a dumptruck. It was the saddest thing you could possibly imagine. He so loved that truck, but the truck was a little more complicated than his two-year-old hands could manipulate and the truck hurt his hand. Well, he took it personally, as little children often do, and the love relationship turned into a love/hate relationship which, of course, resulted in said epic meltdown.

My husband and I sat there, remembering.

As we watched our friends’ meals grow colder and colder and colder as they tag-teamed the bedtime routine. We remembered those days.

As our friends searched for diapers, we remembered.

As we saw kitchen counters covered with pacifiers and bottles and sippy cups and floors scattered with toys in various primary colors. We remembered those days.

As we sat and had ourselves a private romantic meal while our friends were on baby duty, complete with multiple trips up and down the stairs, we remembered.

And I was tired just looking at my lovely friends.

And then I said something I never thought I would say.

I love vasectomies.

(I wish I knew the origin of the image so I could give proper credit and so I could send them a bill for the new keyboard I had to buy after the whole coffee-out-of-the-nose situation)