On October 9, 2013, my partner, David, underwent a vasectomy. We had never envisioned a life filled with children, and after having two kids within 355 days of each other, it felt like a sensible step to prevent any further surprises. It was the right choice for us, our family, and my reproductive health.
What I didn’t anticipate was what I now refer to as “the emptiness.”
Let me explain this emptiness. It arises when you take steps to permanently eliminate the possibility of having more children. Whether it’s through surgical procedures or other forms of contraception, this emptiness becomes a reality.
However, this emptiness is not a barren wasteland. It’s filled with a myriad of emotions and thoughts.
In this space resides my longing for additional children. You might be thinking, “But didn’t you say you didn’t want more kids?” That’s true. I don’t. But it’s an odd realization that my body, which has already nurtured and delivered two incredible children, can no longer do so. My female anatomy, once designed to create adorable little ones, now exists without the possibility of fulfilling that role again.
It’s a fact: I don’t desire any more children. I can confidently say that now. In the months following David’s procedure, however, I was uncertain. After the surgery, we were advised to use alternative birth control until he was confirmed sterile. A few weeks post-recovery, I suggested to David that we could stop using protection before we had official confirmation, opting to leave our fate in the hands of destiny. He agreed.
I then stumbled upon countless stories of unexpected pregnancies after vasectomies that didn’t go as planned. I started tracking my ovulation, secretly hoping that a wayward sperm might make its appearance, and I even imagined a little girl named Sophia Grace joining our family.
But Sophia Grace was never meant to be, and it took me about six months to fully accept that reality.
Still, I am content with my decision. I adore my little family and believe it’s just perfect as it is. Nonetheless, a yearning accompanies this emptiness. I will never again experience the rush of contractions as my body prepares for labor. I will never cradle a newborn of my own. I will not again witness the joy of a baby learning to roll over or take its first bite of food.
These feelings and this sadness find refuge in the emptiness.
This emptiness is now a part of me, and I suspect it will always remain. As my friends welcome new babies and I hold them during their early days, I feel that emptiness intensifying momentarily. Watching my children grow more independent, I quietly reminisce about the times when they relied on me completely. While it can be exhausting, being needed fulfilled a personal need of mine as well.
Soon, a close friend of mine will welcome her third child, and I look forward to hearing her stories of adjusting to such a significant change. I will find joy in my own choice not to add a third child to the mix, especially on days when managing the two I already have feels overwhelming.
Yet, that emptiness will bring a touch of envy. Just a hint of regret that I’ll never experience her journey. After helping her out with chores or meals, I’ll return to my own home, knowing she’ll be cuddling with her newborn—an experience I can never have again.
As I mentioned, I cherish my two kids. They are bright, hilarious, and they challenge me in the best ways possible. I’m learning to come to terms with the emptiness. It’s a significant chapter in my life story, reminding me of my past, my achievements, and how naive I was to think I never wanted children.
For more insights into family planning and emotional transitions, check out this informative piece on infertility or explore home insemination options that might suit your journey. If you’re considering at-home insemination, Make a Mom provides great resources to help you navigate this process.
Summary
Deciding not to have more children can lead to a complex mix of emotions, termed “the emptiness.” While proud of my two wonderful kids, I grapple with feelings of longing and nostalgia for experiences I’ll never have again. Accepting this reality is part of my journey.