During my pregnancy with my second son, Jake, my partner, Mark, clearly expressed his belief that two kids were enough for our family. He felt complete with our two boys. However, I wasn’t quite sure.
After Jake arrived, as we settled into our hospital room alone, I cradled him close and whispered softly, “You are not my last baby.” At that moment, I realized my heart wasn’t ready to close the door on the idea of more children. As Jake and my older son, Max, grew and played together, I still sensed something was missing. It felt like there was a gap in our family photos, a space waiting to be filled.
For as long as I can remember, I dreamed of having four boys. I envisioned a house full of tall, affectionate sons who adored their mother. The image of my family was always clear, even if the identity of my future husband was not.
Then came Lily. She was a girl, and it threw me off balance. I had anticipated another boy, and as Mark and I debated whether Lily would be our last child, uncertainty lingered. I thought I might need that fourth child I had always envisioned, regardless of gender.
To complicate matters, my pregnancy with Lily was particularly challenging. Each subsequent pregnancy had become more taxing on my body. By the time I found out I was having a girl and endured 39 weeks of discomfort, I was almost certain that our family was complete. It wasn’t about the gender; it was about my body’s ability to endure another pregnancy. It felt as if my body was constantly signaling that it had reached its limit.
When Lily finally arrived, placed in my arms, I knew our family was whole. The piece I didn’t realize I needed was this little girl. Three felt perfect.
Mark and I are entirely at peace with our decision. We are confident. Yet, there is an undeniable shift occurring within me.
Last week, during a routine doctor’s visit for Mark, I experienced a wave of emotions. These feelings weren’t about longing for another child; I felt good about our choice. We are a family of five now.
However, I sensed a subtle change.
While grocery shopping at the local store with Lily nestled in the Moby wrap, an old friend approached to congratulate me on my newest addition. She had seen photos on social media and thought Lily was adorable. I appreciated the kind words as I jingled our grocery list, but then my mind wandered to her children, all older than Max, who is about to turn six. It struck me how many of my high school peers have children who are already teenagers or even adults. One friend is a grandmother!
As I breathed in the sweet scent of Lily’s hair, I suddenly felt older than I ever had before.
I’ve never let birthdays define me. They’ve never dictated how I perceive my age. I’ve always felt young at heart, whether getting married at 27 or welcoming my first child at 31. But now, something has changed.
I’m no longer a newlywed; Mark and I will celebrate our 10th anniversary soon. I’m past the stage of being a new mom; this is my third child. My childbearing years have concluded, and Mark has ensured we won’t have more children. We are entering a new chapter.
Mark often used sports metaphors to describe our family planning, saying we were either practicing or actively trying. Now, he’s declared that we’ve moved into an alumni league where no one keeps score. It’s a more significant transition than I anticipated—not because I want more kids, but because the baby stage is behind us.
While we are officially done, we’re about to embark on a new adventure—the growing-up years, where cherished family memories are formed. Reflecting on my childhood, I realize the most vivid memories emerged after my youngest brother was born. That’s where we are now: starting the years my children will hold dear.
Yet, I find myself mourning the loss of my younger days filled with anticipation for new additions to our family. We are all here now, and while we are done, we are also ready to embrace this new beginning.
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In summary, knowing when you are truly done having children can be a complex emotional journey. For some, it may come after the birth of a child, while for others, it evolves over time. The shift can feel significant, marking the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.