I’m almost entirely confident that my baby-making days are behind me. Most of the time, at least.
The original plan was to have two children, and I’ve been fortunate enough to welcome two wonderful boys into my life. I adore them deeply; sometimes, I wish I could pause time and keep them just as they are forever. Yet, I also appreciate the benefits of having older kids. My youngest is nearly three, and this summer, he’s finally ready to join in on some of the activities meant for bigger kids. We’ve gone to the movies together, shared laughs, and even enjoyed bike rides side by side. My boys play well together—when they’re not squabbling—and occasionally, my husband and I manage to hold entire conversations without interruptions.
I envision a newfound freedom awaiting me when my youngest starts full-day kindergarten. Since my first son was born over eight years ago, I’ve only worked sporadically. However, I genuinely enjoy my job, and I cherish moments of solitude, such as a peaceful car ride to work without kids. Plus, our family could really use the additional income. The thought of continuing to work less for a few more years while also providing for another child or sending them to college just doesn’t seem practical.
Usually, I completely agree with this plan. I’m a planner at heart, and the idea of deviating from the plan doesn’t sit well with me.
And yet…
One Saturday morning, we woke up with our youngest snuggled between us. My husband and I looked down at his sleepy, cherubic face, his golden hair tousled. As he rolled closer to me, I noticed how perfectly his little head nestled in the crook of my neck. I breathed him in; he smelled like the sun from yesterday and a hint of baby shampoo, though mostly he just smelled like him—a scent that simply can’t be bottled.
My older son was already awake. He doesn’t check in anymore; he just gets out of bed, turns on the TV, and waits for us to stumble into the living room. I can’t believe how fast my youngest will grow up to be that big boy—the one who’ll need us less, who will no longer want morning cuddles, and whose head won’t fit into my neck anymore.
A few moments later, I checked Facebook and saw a friend’s announcement of her pregnancy, complete with a photo of her test showing those two pink lines. In that instant, it hit me: I will never be pregnant again. I will never experience any of that again. But that’s the plan, I reminded myself. The plan is that I won’t go through pregnancy, childbirth, or the early years of raising children ever again.
Honestly, it felt like a knife to the heart. I knew this already, but it rarely strikes me so hard—all at once and viscerally.
For the next couple of hours, I mulled over everything, calculating our budget, and considering how old I’d be when my second child enters kindergarten (40) and if I could even imagine having a baby before then (definitely not). Later that afternoon, I embarked on a massive decluttering spree. After tossing out some broken items and outdated restaurant menus, I found myself in my older son’s room, sorting through a pile of books. There, I discovered a board book that both my boys loved as infants. It’s called “First Words,” featuring simple, colorful pictures of everyday items like dogs, cats, shoes, and balls. Out of all the similar books, this one was their favorite. It was worn and battered, held together by a piece of packing tape.
When my older son was little, I saved all his belongings for a potential future child (and I still do—my younger son wears all his hand-me-downs). But seeing this book made me realize it was time to move on. I snapped a photo of it and placed it in the trash pile.
Just a few hours earlier, I was seriously contemplating the idea of having another baby. But that desire evaporated. I was done with that baby book for good.
In fact, my yearning for more children is typically just that—fleeting. It arises occasionally but doesn’t linger long. When I genuinely want something, I find it hard to let go, which tells me that I don’t truly long for another child with that kind of intensity.
Still, I couldn’t bring myself to discard the book entirely. I set it aside in a box of baby keepsakes, which could always be revisited if either of our boys decides to have kids…or if my 40th birthday approaches in two years and those momentary cravings resurface.
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In summary, I find myself in a place of acceptance regarding my decision to stop having children. While the fleeting thoughts of wanting another child occasionally surface, I know that my focus is now on embracing the joys of my current family dynamic.
Keyphrase: done having babies
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