I’ll never forget the day my first son was born—September 25, 2004. The moment we brought him home, I looked at my husband and said, “I can’t wait to do this again.” Even though I was exhausted, nervous, and completely overwhelmed by first-time motherhood, my heart was full of excitement at the thought of expanding our family. And thankfully, I had found my perfect partner—my husband completely agreed. No surprise, then, that exactly twelve months later, we welcomed our second son.
By the time our second little boy was three months old, I discovered I was pregnant again. Irish triplets, anyone? Sadly, that pregnancy ended in miscarriage. But just a few months later, I was pregnant once more. Three babies in three years. And yet, even after all of that, I still felt that undeniable pull for more. Another baby arrived a year later, turning our “three in three” into four babies in four years. I never experienced that “I’m done” feeling. Even reading my old journals and blog posts reminded me that my heart always longed for more little ones. Sure, I knew we couldn’t—or probably shouldn’t—have ten kids, but the desire never faded.
I remember one evening having dinner with my sister-in-law as she described that feeling of truly knowing you’re done—content, fulfilled, and completely certain that no more children were meant to be. Even holding a newborn wouldn’t shake that certainty. I listened quietly, thinking to myself, “I’ve never had that feeling.” I’ve never felt done. I’ve never known what it’s like to feel finished having babies.
When we decided to try for another child in early 2012, it took six months to get pregnant. This was different for me—I had conceived my previous five babies (including the one we lost) relatively quickly—so the wait stirred worry and doubt. Perhaps this would be the end. Perhaps it wouldn’t happen again. And yet, just as I came to terms with that possibility, I discovered I was pregnant. Overjoyed, I couldn’t wait to welcome another little one into our family.
Then came another heartbreak: a miscarriage in August 2012. That loss forced me to pause and reflect. Maybe our family was complete. Maybe another child wasn’t meant to be. But deep down, I knew we weren’t done. On Halloween of that year, that hope became reality—I was pregnant again. This time, I cherished every moment, mindful that I could control only my own health and well-being, and I did everything I could to nurture this precious life.
When Victoria, our daughter, entered our lives, questions immediately followed. “You’re done, right?” “You’re not going to try for another girl?” “You won’t have more, right?” Honestly, I would have loved another child after Victoria. At least one more. But age, pregnancy nerves, and financial realities made that impossible. Five children would be our final count. Yet even now, after so many babies, I have never felt truly done.
At 40 years old, life is different than when I had my first child at 25. I have less energy, a full-time job, and five children who need me every day. And yet, the feelings persist. Holding a newborn still stirs my heart. Seeing a pregnant woman sparks warm, fuzzy emotions. Even watching gender reveals on YouTube (don’t judge!) gives me goosebumps. People still ask if we might have more, but while it’s not our plan, that “done, done, done” feeling? I’ve never had it. I don’t know if I ever will.
How do you know you’re done? There isn’t a one-size-fits-all answer. Some of us know without a doubt. Some of us never will. For me, it’s a feeling I carry in my heart—a gentle, persistent reminder of the life-giving joy that motherhood brings. And honestly, that’s okay.
