When Did You Know You Were Done Having Kids?

Preeclampsia, a screaming baby, and a hard no to a third.

For me? It was somewhere between the midwife saying, "You have signs of preeclampsia again," and me thinking, "Cool, so I might die again." You know, just another Tuesday in the magical world of pregnancy.

Let me be clear: preeclampsia isn’t the death sentence it once was. Back in Victorian times, preeclampsia was a total mystery. They called it "toxemia of pregnancy" and they thought it was caused by poisons in the blood. The treatment options? Let’s just say they were about as comforting as being told to "relax." Bloodletting (yes, they literally drained your blood), purging, and restrictive diets were all on the menu. Guess what, none of it worked. We’ve come a long way since then, thankfully.

But, with my daughter, the second time around, I was very aware of my own mortality. I'd been there before, with my son, and I knew what was coming: high blood pressure, all-day nausea, and the possibility that my body would decide, "Nope, we’re done here."

Preeclampsia, by the way, isn't just a "only when you are pregnant thing." No one tells you that it can hang around like an unwanted house guest. My blood pressure didn’t just go back to normal after my baby was born, it stayed slightly elevated. Yay for lifelong health effects!

This time, though, I had more than just my own life to consider. I had a 5-year-old at home who was still pretty attached to me, literally sometimes, but also emotionally. And while I love my husband (bless him), I was his favourite parent for a solid five years, so the stakes felt even higher. If something happened, I'd be leaving him with his second favourite parent. I’m joking, mostly. But seriously, I couldn’t shake the thought: "What if something happens to me during labor?" It wasn’t just the baby I was worrying about this time; it was my son, too.

And that’s when I knew. The second they told me I’d be delivering my daughter early because my body was doing that thing again, I knew I couldn’t do this a third time. The anxiety, the fear of leaving two kids behind? It was too much. Not to mention the recurrent miscarriages we’d been through, the emotional toll of it all. My body and mind just couldn’t handle it.

Oh, and let’s not forget that one magical day when my daughter, at nine months old, screamed directly in my face for 20 hours straight. Like, just sat there, in my face, shrieking. If I wasn’t already done, that would have been the final straw.

But I’m not the only one with a “done” moment. I asked the ever-wise, worn-out mums of the internet what their turning point was, and here are the top 10 reasons they knew they were done:

1. Money (because kids apparently eat everything, including your bank account)

2. Health issues that made the decision for them (solidarity on that one)

3. Accidentally having a third child (surprise!)

4. The fear of twins (enough said)

5. Childcare costs that could rival a mortgage

6. Having no village or family support (because apparently, we don’t all live in a cozy tv show world where the grandparents are always available)

7. A traumatic birth experience (enough to scare you into lifelong celibacy)

8. The third child syndrome (I hear it’s real)

9. Losing the will to function after two

10. Simply realising how expensive everything is (again, money!)

For some, it was a slow realisation - one day they sat down with a cup of hot tea, and their kids didn’t immediately ruin it, and they thought, “Oh, this is nice. I don’t want to mess this up with another tiny human.” For others, it was like being hit by a truck made of reality.

Let’s be honest, sometimes we don’t want to be done. Sometimes, we fantasise about holding a baby one last time, that sweet newborn smell. But for a lot of us, the decision isn’t about what we want; it’s about what’s right for our family, our sanity, and our bank accounts.

That last pregnancy is an emotional rollercoaster. I got weirdly sentimental, pretending maybe we’d have a third (Lies! All lies!). It’s like you start doing a countdown of “lasts”: the last time I’ll breastfeed, the last first bath, the last time I’ll be sliced open like a piñata. Some of those “lasts” were actually kind of comforting to know I wouldn’t experience again.

And then there’s the joy of getting your body back. Like, actually back. Because between my first and second, my body still didn’t feel like mine, it was on loan, like a library book waiting to be checked out again. But now, now I’m done. The baby factory is closed, and there’s a surprising sense of freedom in that.

So, yeah, it’s bittersweet. But knowing we’re complete? That’s a kind of peace I didn’t expect. We’re done, and it feels good.