Every so often people (a.k.a. grandma) ask if I’m done having children. I usually direct them to this post, but anyone seeing my bedtime ritual would undoubtedly assume that unless a stork or immaculate conception are involved, my chances of getting knocked up are abysmally slim.

It starts – and typically ends – with my jammies: now that the season of lingerie (e.g. summertime…and my 30’s…) has passed, I tend to favour flannel bottoms topped with an old t-shirt that’s covered in kid-schmutz. Sexy? Hells no. Comfy? Oh yeah, baby.

Mr. Lautner looks clean enough, but the shirt is shmutz-city...

If it’s allergy season (it seems I’m sensitive to oxygen) or I have a cold, then each nostril is either corked with tissues or I’ve strapped a Breathe-Right nasal strip across my nose.

This is how I envision myself, fully stripped.

Next up is a mouth guard that’s used to prevent teeth grinding (that’s not the only grinding being prevented…ba-dum-ch!) and, if the kids have been waking up at 5:45 a.m. every morning since the time change, earplugs.

I’ll pause a moment to let your libido recover (perhaps a cold shower is in order…).

My pièce de résistance is a pair of socks. But wait – it gets better: these aren’t just any socks and they aren’t worn on my feet (minds out of the gutter, people!). They’re super-soft chenille socks and I put them on my lotion-slathered hands, like mittens. Why not use super-soft chenille mittens, you ask? I have no answer (but anyone getting me for secret Santa…you’re welcome).

How we haven’t popped out a litter of kiddies, Duggar-style, remains a mystery…

Like this, but with softer hands.