I got pregnant with my oldest child when I was 25. I gave birth to my youngest child when I was 35.

About the only thing similar in both experiences was I was terribly nauseated during my first trimester. Beyond that, we’re talking night and day.

At 25 I had a cute little body, tons of energy and was thrilled to finally be starting a family. I’d wanted to be a mother ever since I could remember, and I loved being pregnant.

Pat my belly? Go for it! Wanna hear about my prenatal exercise class? Isn’t this maternity suit I bought for work adorable? Feel how thick my hair has gotten since I’ve been pregnant. Want to see my sonogram?

After Danny was born, I tried so hard to be perfect. He had a strict nap schedule, I strategically timed the introduction of all his solid foods and I nursed him for 10 months. My husband and I lived in an apartment in the city and I worked days while he worked nights so one of us would always be home with the baby.

Looking back, those were good days. As parents, we had no idea what we were doing, but we did our best.

Ten years later I learned baby No. 3 was on the way. By then we’d been in our house for eight years, and I’d stopped working to stay home with our two kids. The cute body was long gone, as was my energy level. Pregnancy No. 3 wasn’t nearly as fascinating, except that this time the kids got to enjoy feeling the baby kick and watching it grow and move.

By then almost all my girlfriends had at least one child, so our pregnancy conversations mostly touched on things like indigestion, hemorrhoids, swapping maternity clothes and when to drag all the baby stuff out of the attic.

After Rosalie was born, being perfect no longer mattered to me. She usually napped in her car seat running to and from the store, soccer, basketball, gymnastics and school events. I nursed her for 6 months and she sampled soda, ice cream and doughnuts long before her older siblings ever had.

Looking back, those days were good. As parents, we felt comfortable in what we were doing and we did our best.

Check out or story on page 16 about the benefits and drawbacks of starting a family earlier or later in life. I’m sure everyone can relate to one end of the spectrum, if not both.

Last week my youngest told me she wanted a baby brother. Maybe next year when she turned 10, she said.

“Really?” I said calmly, when I really wanted to scream, “Are you kidding me?!”

I tried 25 and 35, but I have no desire to visit labor and delivery at 45.