I am completely confident that my days of having children are behind me. Well, most of the time. The initial goal was to have two kids, and we have been fortunate enough to welcome two boys into our family. I cherish them deeply and often wish I could pause their childhoods forever. However, I also appreciate the advantages of having older children. My youngest is nearly 3, and this summer he has finally reached an age where he can join in on more activities meant for bigger kids. We’ve enjoyed outings to the movies, shared laughter, and even bike rides down the street together. The boys interact well (aside from the occasional squabble), and there are moments when my husband and I can engage in uninterrupted conversations.
I look forward to the freedom that will come when my youngest starts full-day kindergarten. Since my first son was born over eight years ago, my work has been sporadic. I do enjoy my job, and I take solace in quiet time alone—even a simple car ride to work without children would be blissful. Furthermore, we genuinely need the extra income; the thought of supporting another child, along with the associated costs of raising them, just doesn’t fit into our current plans.
Most of the time, I am entirely committed to this decision. I am a planner at heart, and the idea of changing our course feels unsettling. Yet, there are moments of doubt.
One Saturday morning, as we lay in bed with our youngest snuggled in between us, I gazed down at his sleepy eyes and tousled hair. He rolled into me, and I was struck by how perfectly his head nestled in the crook of my neck. The scent of him—mixed with remnants of sunblock and baby shampoo—was utterly unique and irreplaceable.
Meanwhile, my older son was already awake, independent and ready to start his day. I am acutely aware of how quickly my little one will grow into a big boy—the kind who no longer seeks morning cuddles or fits snugly in my arms.
Later that day, scrolling through Facebook, I stumbled upon a friend’s announcement of her pregnancy, complete with a photo of her positive test result. A wave of realization hit me: I will never experience pregnancy again, nor will I welcome another newborn or toddler into my life. But this was the plan, right? The plan was to step away from all the chaos of early parenthood.
The bittersweet feeling tugged at my heart. I had known this intellectually, but the emotional impact struck me hard in that moment. I spent the next few hours mulling over our budget, calculating how old I would be when my second child began kindergarten (40), and whether I could even consider having a baby before then (the answer was a resounding no).
That afternoon led me to declutter our home. After tossing out broken items and outdated menus, I wandered into my older son’s room. While sorting through a pile of books, I came across a cherished board book titled “First Words,” featuring vibrant images of everyday objects. This book had been a favorite of both boys during their baby years—its worn cover a testament to that love.
In the past, I had saved all of my older son’s belongings for a potential future child, but as I held that book, I felt a finality wash over me. I snapped a picture of it before placing it in the trash pile. The desire for another baby, which had briefly resurfaced that morning, evaporated. I was resolute in my decision.
However, I couldn’t bring myself to discard the book entirely. Instead, I set it aside with other keepsakes, perhaps to be revisited if either of my boys decides to have children someday—or if the thoughts of a new baby resurface as my 40th birthday approaches.
In moments like these, my yearning for another child is fleeting. When I truly desire something, it lingers in my heart, but this longing does not hold that same intensity.