I'm in my mid-30s, which means every few months, I go to a baby shower. Every time I attend one, I am certain of two things. First, that I picked the right girlfriends, because I have never once played a shower game that required me to sample label-less jars of baby food or try to take the rectal temperature of a Cabbage Patch Doll. (OK, so the latter isn't actually a baby shower game, but you know what I mean.)

The second thing I become certain of -- somewhere between scarfing down small sandwiches and swapping labor stories -- is that I do not want any more kids.

I find baby showers to be a great test for my mommy clock. It gives me the opportunity to check in with myself and ask questions like, "Do you miss booties and Boppies and burp cloths?" and "Come on, don't you want a daughter?" The answer to both questions is a gurgling, goo-goo-ing no.

Oh, don't get me wrong, I love the way babies' heads smell and those tiny floral tights are definitely darling, but I can't imagine reliving the sleep deprivation, the nursing pads, the sluggish "pregnancy brain" that remains for months post partum, the moratorium on wine drinking and the hair-splitting unreasonableness of a toddler.

On that note, somebody really needs a vasectomy. Maybe for Valentine's Day?