Why I’m Done Having Kids (And No, I’m Not Sorry)

If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me when I’m having another baby, I could pay for therapy to process why that question makes me break into hives. Let me say this loud enough for the people in the back: I’m not having more kids. I don’t want more kids. Please stop asking me like you know something I don’t.

Before you clutch your pearls and accuse me of hating children, let me explain. I have two boys. My first son lulled me into a false sense of security. He was the kind of baby who made motherhood look like a Pinterest board. Slept through the night. Smiled like a cherub. Never threw himself on the floor at Target. He was basically the brochure version of having a kid.

So naturally, I thought, I’m amazing at this. Let’s do it again.

Enter my second child. My sweet little birth control with legs.

Listen, I love this boy with everything in me, but I’m convinced God put him here as a warning to my reproductive system. He is spirited. Determined. A two-year-old with the stamina of a Navy SEAL and the attitude of a reality TV star. He wakes up every day ready to fight me for custody of the house.

This child is the reason I no longer believe in the phrase “terrible twos.” Because terrible doesn’t even begin to cover it. We’ve upgraded to catastrophic. He has opinions about everything. Snacks. Socks. The way I breathe. He negotiates bedtime like he’s in a hostage situation.

And let’s talk about public meltdowns. My oldest never had one. My youngest? Oh, he’s an artist. A pioneer. He throws tantrums so dramatic they should be televised. He once laid flat on the grocery store floor screaming because I wouldn’t let him eat raw spaghetti noodles out of the box. People stared like I was raising a feral wolf cub. One old lady clutched her pearls and whispered, “Bless her heart,” which is Southern for “Her life is over.”

By 10 a.m., I’m sweating like I ran a marathon. By noon, I’m Googling preschools that take toddlers on the first day of enrollment. By 8 p.m., I’m whispering to myself, You wanted this life.

And then — then — someone slides into my DMs or calls me up and says the words that make my eye twitch: So, when are you having another?

Another what? Another meltdown in aisle five? Another night of sleeping in 17-minute increments? Another human who thinks I’m a full-time snack machine?

No. No, I am not.

People love to romanticize “big families” like we’re living in a Hallmark movie. They picture matching Christmas pajamas and coordinated family photos in a field of wildflowers. You know what they don’t picture? Me, hiding in my closet eating chocolate chips straight from the bag because it’s the only place I can be alone for 30 seconds.

My uterus is retired. Done. Hanging up the jersey. And that’s okay. We need to normalize moms saying I’m good without side-eyes and sermons about giving your child a sibling. He has a sibling. They just don’t like each other right now.

Motherhood is beautiful, but it’s also brutal. It’s work. It’s sacrifice. And sometimes the most loving thing I can do for myself and my kids is to know my limit and respect it.

So the next time someone asks me when I’m having another, I’m going to smile and say, When Netflix starts paying me for this reality show. Until then, I’ll be here, chasing a toddler who is currently scaling the kitchen cabinets like Spider-Man on a sugar rush.

Send snacks. And prayers. Mostly prayers.