I’m nearly certain that my days of having children are behind me. Most of the time, I’m resolute in this decision. The initial plan was to have two kids, and I’ve been fortunate enough to welcome two wonderful boys into our lives. I cherish every moment with them, often wishing I could pause their growth. Yet, I also revel in the advantages of having older kids. My youngest is approaching three, and this summer has opened up new opportunities for family adventures. We’ve enjoyed movie outings together, shared laughs, and even taken bike rides down the street as a unit. The boys get along well—most of the time—allowing my husband and me to engage in uninterrupted conversations at last.
As I anticipate the freedom that will come when my youngest starts full-day kindergarten, I can’t help but reflect on my work life. Since the birth of my first son eight years ago, my professional engagements have been sporadic. However, I find fulfillment in my job and greatly value my moments of solitude (even a peaceful drive to work without kids would be a dream). Financially, our family could really use an extra income, and prolonging my time away from work simply isn’t practical. Adding another child to the mix would bring about challenges that seem insurmountable, including the costs of raising a child through college.
For the most part, I am completely aligned with this plan. I’m a planner at heart, and the thought of altering this well-thought-out strategy unsettles me.
But Then There Are Moments of Doubt
One Saturday morning, my husband and I woke up with our youngest nestled between us, his big, sleepy eyes gazing up at us and his golden hair tousled. As he rolled into me, I realized just how perfectly his head fit in the crook of my neck. I inhaled deeply, taking in the familiar scent of sunblock mixed with baby shampoo—a unique fragrance that can’t be bottled. My older son was already up, self-sufficient, and engaged with the television, no longer needing our morning cuddles.
I can’t help but recognize how swiftly my little one will become that independent big boy—the one who will no longer seek our affection, whose head will no longer fit in my neck.
Later that day, while scrolling through social media, I stumbled upon a friend’s pregnancy announcement. The photo of her pregnancy test and those two pink lines hit me like a ton of bricks. I realized, in that moment, that I would never again experience pregnancy, birth, or the early days of parenthood. But this was the plan, and I reminded myself that I was committed to never reliving those experiences.
It was a bittersweet realization, one that left me feeling as if my heart had been pierced. While I understood this intellectually, it struck me emotionally in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
For a couple of hours, I wrestled with my feelings, crunching numbers, considering how old I would be when my second child starts kindergarten (40), and contemplating the possibility of welcoming another baby any sooner than that (the answer was a resounding no). That afternoon, I decided to declutter the house. After tossing out broken straws and outdated menus, I wandered into my older son’s room. Amidst the chaos, I discovered a well-loved board book titled “First Words,” filled with bright images of everyday objects. This was a cherished book that both of my boys adored as babies, now worn and held together with tape.
In the past, I had saved all my older son’s items for a potential next child, but as I held the book, I knew it was time to make a final decision. I snapped a photo of it, then added it to the garbage pile.
Just a few hours earlier, I had been toying with the idea of expanding our family, but now that longing had dissipated. I felt resolute about not adding another baby to our lives. However, I couldn’t bring myself to part with the book completely. Instead, I placed it in a keepsake box—a collection I could revisit if our boys ever decide to have children of their own or if I find myself contemplating motherhood again as I approach my 40th birthday.
The desire for more children often flares up but fades quickly. When I truly yearn for something, it’s hard to let go, which tells me that my longing for another child isn’t deep-seated. If you find yourself in a similar situation, consider reading more about parenting and family planning over at Cervical Insemination. And if you’re exploring options for at-home insemination, Make a Mom offers a range of reliable products. Additionally, for those curious about fertility insurance, UCSF’s resource is an excellent starting point.
In summary, while I often feel certain that my family is complete, those fleeting moments of nostalgia remind me of the joys of infancy and toddlerhood. But for now, I am embracing my decision and cherishing the beautiful boys I already have.
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