Let’s be real; I’m done having babies, and that reality stings. My little guy, Max, has his heart set on a hedgehog costume. He insists that a hedgehog is his “animargus” and drags his stuffed hedgehog puppet into bed every night. Every morning, I wake up to find him with his tousled blonde hair, asking for blueberry muffins and Octonauts episodes. He yells at our dogs, then snuggles up beside me on the couch, declaring, “Me love you, Mama.” He’s almost 4, my baby forever, but I can’t have another.
There’s a profound ache in knowing I’m done, even though part of me knows it’s for the best. Our family dynamic feels just right. My eldest, Jake, even mentioned yesterday that he doesn’t want a baby or a big brother, that he’s perfectly content with just the five of us. Then my middle son, Leo, piped up, “But there are only five of us!” and my heart shattered again because I know he craves another sibling as well. These conflicting emotions swirl in any mom’s mind when the decision to stop having kids comes into play. We feel whole, yet not entirely fulfilled.
This realization crept up on me over time, then hit me all at once. I always envisioned having a big family—maybe five or six kids. But due to the medications I need to stay healthy, carrying another pregnancy isn’t an option. I can’t handle the toll of hyperemesis gravidarum like I did in my last pregnancy, which landed me in the hospital. So, my uterus is officially closed for business.
Sure, we could explore adoption, and who knows, that could be in our future. Yet, the ease of biological conception is off the table due to my health and medication concerns. I know I’m not alone in this — many women face similar reasons for deciding they’re done: financial constraints, mental health, traumatic medical events, or even personal choices.
We’re finished. No more baby clothes, carriers, or diapers. No more midnight rocking sessions that stretch from midnight to 4 a.m., praying for sleep. I won’t experience those gummy smiles or first milestones again—first bites, first steps, and the moment he finally fits into that dinosaur shirt that was passed down from his brothers.
There’s something magical about a baby—the way they fit perfectly against you, their scent, and those hilarious little sounds they make. The thought of never having that again is almost unbearable.
I try to process it all, but the sadness lingers. I can’t even look at pregnant women right now; their glow only highlights what I can’t have. A friend shared news of her pregnancy after a tough battle with miscarriages, and instead of feeling joy for her, I just felt loss and ended up crying. When she called, I had to turn my phone off; shame washed over me.
There’s a lot of guilt that comes with these feelings. We’re done, but it still stings because we’re not quite ready to accept it. We hurt and long for the baby we can’t have. The future used to seem so full of little ones, but now it feels uncertain.
People often tell us to appreciate the children we already have, as if this longing is somehow separate from them. This yearning has nothing to do with how much we cherish our current kids. It’s like devouring three chocolates and still wanting one more—not because we didn’t enjoy the others, but because we craved that experience again. Yes, we adore the stages our kids are in, but they’re not the same as when they were babies. They’re wonderful in their own right, but it’s just different.
We loved our kids as infants, and we love them even more as they grow. We want to see that love develop again—to witness the changes, from their growing legs to their first attempts at drawing letters. We want someone to cherish that old doll tossed in the stuffed animal bin, the one that used to go everywhere. That really hits home for me; I want that joy again.
For now, I’ll focus on my almost-4-year-old. I’ll brush his long hair and delight in his adorable “me” instead of “I” moments. He’ll chatter about his hedgehog “animargus” and Paw Patrol, demanding to be picked up. I’ll cherish my almost-6-year-old who insists on holding my hand, and I’ll smile at my 7-year-old as he sneaks his hand into mine, still trying to carry his baby brother when I tell him not to.
I’ll love them fiercely, all of them. And in quiet moments, I’ll allow myself to mourn the babies I won’t have.
If you’re in a similar situation and thinking about expanding your family in a different way, consider resources like the free Make a Mom sperm donor matching group or check out Make a Mom for at-home insemination options. They offer the only reusable option for at-home insemination; you can learn more about how it works here. If you’re curious about their products, you might want to check out the CryoBaby Home Intracervical Insemination Syringe Kit or the BabyMaker Home Intracervical Insemination Syringe Kit. For further insights into fertility treatments, WebMD has some excellent resources.
In summary, the journey of coming to terms with not having more children is filled with mixed emotions. While I embrace and love my children fiercely, I also grapple with the heartache of what could have been.
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