There isn’t a week that goes by that my 9-year-old daughter doesn’t tell me exactly what her future family plans will be. “I want four kids,” she tells me. “An older brother, twin girls, and a baby sister.”
Before I can respond, she continues. “I will be a fashion designer, and we will live above my fashion boutique in the middle of Paris.”
I always smile in admiration of her enthusiasm. Her career dreams shift every few months, but her family goals never waver. She’s set on having four kids, naively believing she can simply will her life to look exactly as she imagines it. When she’s finally done painting her vivid picture, I take a breath and begin speaking slowly, reminding her that plans and goals always change, especially when it comes to having children. “It’s okay to change your mind,” I tell her. “Plus, some things don’t always go as planned.”
“I know, I know,” she says, as if I’m killing her vibe. And I probably am, but I can’t help myself. I, too, remember being her age and dreaming of what my idyllic family would look like. I thought it would be so easy to find a husband, have the dream career, and have the number of children I wanted. Just like my daughter, I wanted four. All girls. I wanted the sisterhood I never had as an only child. And I believed it would be so easy to love my kids perfectly, never raise my voice, have all the money we needed, keep the house perfectly clean, and love every moment of it—all while holding that dream career, mind you. (I sound just like my daughter, don’t I?)
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The motherhood I expected
I held onto that dream well into my early 20s. Even though my career wasn’t panning out as I expected it to, motherhood and marriage were at the forefront of my mind. My biological clock was ticking. At that time, I was heavily involved in my local church. I saw what appeared to be perfect families everywhere. Beautiful moms with cute outfits and bright smiles who adorned their faces, who never seemed agitated by their many children. I watched them wipe noses, change diapers, and give hugs without batting an eye–often while cheerily multitasking on some church-related task or holding a conversation. It all just felt … perfect, like I was watching the ultimate example of what my dream life would look like.
I knew I wanted to be that mom—the one whose kids adored her as much as she adored them, who never appeared weary or frustrated, and who seemed fully content in her identity as a mother. I even went so far as to believe that I no longer needed a career. Motherhood looked so fulfilling that I foolishly believed for a moment that I never actually wanted that dream job. Motherhood was my dream job, I thought.
The reality of motherhood
A few years later, my motherhood dreams were close to becoming a reality. I had gotten married and would be expecting our first child a little over a year after we said, “I do.” My husband also had a son from a previous relationship, so I became an instant stepmom. I was fully in mom-mode, planning perfect Pinterest dinners and spending Saturdays cleaning our home from top to bottom while my husband attended classes. I was driving to doctor’s appointments and school activities while my belly expanded. On top of that, I was working as a teacher (NOT my dream job) and had plans of starting my own business. I was ecstatic to soon be welcoming my first baby—a girl, just like I hoped for. The dream I had been watching in others was soon to be my reality.
And for a while, it was that dream. The newborn stage was hard, but blissful. I took to breastfeeding well and got my baby on a sleep schedule by 2 months old. By the time she was four months old, I felt myself coming out of the postpartum fog. Slowly, I began to find myself again. For a moment, I felt like I could easily add in a few more kids and have the family I always envisioned.
Dealing with PPD
But soon, things caught up with me. It was almost instantaneous. As if someone flipped a switch in my brain and turned on postpartum depression in a way I didn’t know was possible. I also didn’t know that postpartum depression (PPD) could strike months after the initial postpartum period. So, for a while, I had no idea that it was PPD I was dealing with. Fits of rage became my norm.
All of a sudden, I felt trapped. It was like the human bound to my hip and glued to my breast was serving me a prison sentence. Every time I glanced at myself in the mirror, a stranger stared back at me. I had no idea who I was, or where the person I thought I once knew had gone. My life was consumed by this little human whom I loved more than anything, but who had also stripped me of my entire being. The harder I searched for the woman I was, the more I felt like I was drowning.
“The harder I searched for the woman I was, the more I felt like I was drowning.”
Having a second child
Even though I had found myself in the throes of postpartum depression, I knew I wanted to have more children. So, I decided to start trying again. I felt like if I was going to have more, I better get it out of the way. By now, the realities of what my body had endured with an entire pregnancy, delivery, and postpartum had hit me. I realized just how difficult it would be to continue doing this for each subsequent kid. I was afraid that if I waited too long, I wouldn’t want to start over again. Might as well endure another fight while I was still in the midst of the first one.
So, we began trying again. Eventually, we welcomed another baby girl exactly two years and two days after my first was born. This was a total coincidence! I think my girls planned it this way before they were even conceived, because I personally would not have chosen back-to-back birthdays for the rest of my life.
This time, the newborn bliss coincided with the remnants of previous PPD, a fresh dose of postpartum anxiety, health complications with my newborn, and sensory challenges emerging with my now-toddler. I had officially transitioned to working from home. This was a relief after teaching every day, but I soon found myself back inside that trapped feeling. Except this time, I had two little ones holding me hostage. Their faces were adorable, my love for them was overflowing, and endless snuggles and kisses kept my depression and anxiety from jumping off the deep end. But something in me knew this was it for me. I couldn’t do this again.
The years I lost myself to motherhood
As the months turned into years—and my postpartum and breastfeeding hormones finally leveled out—I kept searching for that moment when things would finally settle. When my kids would finally gain more independence, so every moment wasn’t spent keeping them from unintentionally hurting themselves. When the endless tantrums finally ended, so I could hear myself think, or pee, in peace. Maybe when they were finally old enough for school, so I could begin rebuilding the life I had left behind—the life I sillily thought I could simultaneously build with babies on my hip.
Wanting them to grow up quicker
My constant thought was, “I can’t wait until they’re (insert older age here).” Then they would reach that age, and things wouldn’t change much. They still screamed and fought. They still hurt themselves every five seconds. And they still clung to me, refusing to allow me a moment of peace even after being with me all day. Nothing felt like it was ever enough. If I gave them 100 hugs, they wanted 101. If I played with them for an hour, they wanted two. They were constantly fighting for my attention. As if, somehow, the moment I showed love to one kid, I no longer loved the other one.
Feeling like I was getting it wrong
Behavioral challenges were emerging, and I felt like I was always getting the discipline thing wrong. I followed every parenting account online and attempted every trick and tip, yet nothing seemed to work for us. I spent every day chasing a hopeful hour to get some alone time and build the business I had still dreamt of years earlier. And every time I thought I’d get that hour, it was interrupted, pushed back, or stolen altogether.
Trying to find moments of joy
High alert was my new norm. Forever tense, always hypervigilant, and never feeling true joy. I loved my kids, and there were moments of joy, but a true sense of overall joy did not exist. I enjoyed teaching them how to put fashion choices together, painting their nails, and cooking with them in the kitchen. Watching them play, learn to read, and develop an imagination as I’d never seen before was a gift. I even began teaching them my favorite sport in the world—tennis—and they’ve since joined me in my obsession. These have been joyful moments, but they’ve always been accompanied by hypervigilance, exhaustion, and a loss of myself that I had pretty much given up on finding ever again.
Letting go of the original plan
With everything the newborn and toddler years had taken out of me, the question of whether to have another still lingered in the back of my mind. After all, I had originally wanted four, and my children were always hinting that they wanted another sibling. But every time I sat with the thought, my anxiety rose. I was just figuring out how to mother these two girls, who I already worried I was ruining. My rage, anxiety, and depression often affected my interactions with them. I had yet to exhale since bringing my first into the world. Things had been difficult from the beginning. How would I be able to parent these girls well and have another baby?
Sure, the idea of a baby sounded cute. But these babies turn into children with very specific needs quickly. And I had become the one who had to meet the majority of those needs, let alone figure out how to continue meeting my own. My husband didn’t work a flexible schedule. We had also made the difficult decision to homeschool after being dissatisfied with the public schools in our neighborhood. We don’t have family close by, and hiring help was out of the question. I had been out of the workforce for several years at this point, and now that I was homeschooling, it felt impossible to add a second income to our household. (And my business was nothing more than a glorified hobby because I never did find that time I had been searching for.)
Telling my husband I was done having kids
One night, I sat down with my husband and told him that I was officially done having children. We had been holding off taking permanent birth control measures until I was sure, and now I was sure. He quickly agreed, and we made plans for him to get a vasectomy.
And for the first time, I truly exhaled. I was done. No guilt. No what-ifs or fear of starting over. I had my two girls, plus my bonus son. I could focus my energy on rebuilding myself so I could be the mother to them that they deserved. Plus, I now understand that if we had another child, no child would receive the mother they deserved, and that wouldn’t be fair to them. I also knew that if I had another baby, I would never find the woman I had left behind years prior, and that wasn’t fair to me either.
“I also knew that if I had another baby, I would never find the woman I had left behind years prior, and that wasn’t fair to me either.”
Finding the family size that was right for me
My children are 7 and 9 now. Things still feel hard, but I’m finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. The tantrums have died down, and they’re more independent. Even though they still cling to me, they understand my need for space (most days). I feel like I am finally the mother I’ve always wanted to be, and I believe that is because I chose to stop having children when I did. And now with the economic and political instability we’re facing, I’m even more grateful we decided to stop growing our family. I’m already panicking about having to put them through college at the same time. Plus, they’re practically eating us out of a house and home now! I’d much rather comfortably provide for two than struggle to provide for more just because my 20-year-old self thought she knew what she wanted.
The truth is, it’s often impossible to know exactly what we want—or what’s best for us—until we’ve experienced the reality of it. The highlight reel of someone else’s life, or what we see on television or read in books, never shows us the reality of what it takes to actually live out that dream.
Having four children looked bright and shiny at the time. What could be better than four adorable children to love and cherish for the rest of my life? Well, two adorable children, actually. Two adorable children, it turns out, are perfect for me.
“I always wanted four children, too,” I tell my 9-year-old when I have a chance. “But I realized how stressed I’d be if I had more once I had you and your sister, so I decided to stop there so I could be the best mom for you two.”
She looks at me with wide eyes. “Really?” she asks.
“Yep,” I say. “And I’m so glad I did. Things can change, and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you didn’t fulfill your dream—it just means you realized what the actual dream was all along.”
Caroline Sumlin, Contributing Writer
Caroline Sumlin is a writer, author, and content creator specializing in topics ranging from self-worth, lifestyle, wellness, motherhood, education, society, and culture. Caroline received her Bachelor of Arts degree in Journalism from Howard University in Washington, DC. Driven by her passion for freedom and justice, Caroline crafts articles that urge readers to reflect more deeply and critically about themselves, their lives, and the world around them.
