Parenting
By Samantha Green
Updated: July 15, 2021
Originally Published: May 8, 2015
On October 9, 2013, my partner had a vasectomy. We had never intended to have children, but life took an unexpected turn, and suddenly, we found ourselves with two kids born less than a year apart. It felt like the right choice to take steps to prevent any future surprises. It was the best decision for our family and, quite frankly, for my body too.
What I didn’t anticipate was the emergence of “the emptiness.”
Let me explain this emptiness. It surfaces when you make a definitive choice to eliminate the possibility of having more children. Whether through surgery or other methods, that choice creates a unique space within you.
Yet, this emptiness isn’t just a void; it’s filled with a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings.
In this space lies my unfulfilled longing for more children. Now, you might be thinking, “But didn’t you say you didn’t want any more kids?” And while that’s true, it’s a strange realization to come to when you acknowledge that your body, which has brought two wonderful kids into the world, will never experience that again. Those once-functioning reproductive organs now rest quietly, without the possibility of fulfilling their original purpose.
Sure, I can confidently say I don’t want more children. I can say that now. However, right after Luke’s procedure, my feelings were less certain. We were told to use alternative contraception until he was officially sterile. A few weeks post-surgery, I had a chat with Luke about ditching the condoms before receiving the green light, entertaining the idea that we might leave our fate in divine hands. He was on board. Then I read countless stories about “surprises” after vasectomies, and I found myself tracking my ovulation, secretly hoping for a little miracle.
If a third child were to come, I convinced myself it would be a girl, and I’d name her Trinity Grace.
But Trinity Grace never arrived, and it took me about six months to accept that reality.
And you know what? It’s okay. I don’t regret our decision. I adore my little family, and I believe it’s just as it should be.
Still, the emptiness has brought a new longing. I will never again feel the rush of contractions, nor will I cradle my own newborn. I won’t witness the joy of my child’s first roll, crawl, or bite of solid food. Those memories and experiences now reside in that emptiness.
This emptiness has become a part of me, and I doubt it will ever fade. As friends welcome babies into their lives, I’ll hold their little ones and feel that emptiness swell within me momentarily. As my kids grow into independent beings, I will silently yearn for the days when they relied on me entirely. Sure, it wasn’t always easy, but meeting their needs also fulfilled my own need to be needed.
In a few months, a close friend will welcome her third child, and I look forward to hearing her tales of navigating such a big change. I’ll find joy in my decision to not add another child to our family, especially on days when managing my two feels like a full-time job.
But that emptiness will still stir a hint of envy and a touch of regret that I’ll never experience her journey. After helping her out, I’ll return to my home, where I won’t be cuddling a newborn, an opportunity forever out of reach.
As I mentioned, I am incredibly happy with my two children. They are bright, funny, and wonderfully challenging in all the right ways. And I’m learning to embrace the emptiness. It’s an essential part of my narrative. It serves as a reminder of where I’ve been, what I’ve accomplished, and how naive I was to think I didn’t want kids in the first place.
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Summary:
This article explores the emotional complexities that arise after deciding not to have more children, reflecting on the feelings of emptiness and longing that coexist with contentment in an established family. The author shares personal experiences, acknowledging the challenges and joys of parenting while coming to terms with the finality of their decision.