Do You Ever Regret Having Kids? Honest Parenting Thoughts For When You’re Worn Thin
It’s 7:14 p.m. and I’m leaning against my dented kitchen fridge, staring at chewed Pop-Tart crumbs all over the new toaster. My 12-year-old just slammed their bedroom door so hard the picture frames on the hallway wall shook, all because I asked twice to take the overflowing trash bin out to the curb. The golden retriever peed on the entry rug ten minutes ago, and my partner is stuck in a last-minute work meeting 45 minutes across town. I just got off my own work call, my bra’s been snapped for three hours, and I haven’t had a minute to even rinse the dish soap off my hands from lunch. That’s when the thought drifts up, clear and uninvited: I regret this.
I’d just seen that question trending all over social media a week before—Do you regret having kids?—and I’d scrolled through hundreds of comments, half screaming that anyone who says yes is a garbage parent, half yelling that parenthood is a raw deal no one warns you about. I locked my phone after that and felt guilty for even thinking the question applied to me. Because I love my kids. I love the way my 8-year-old tucks her cold feet under my leg when we watch movies, the way my 12-year-old leaves me silly doodles on my grocery list when they think I’m not looking. But love doesn’t mean every moment feels like a gift.
Last month, we drove three hours to the zoo for my 8-year-old’s birthday. She climbed on my back halfway through because her feet hurt, and my shoulders ached for three days after, but when she pointed at the giraffe and yelled “Mom, it’s wearing yellow polka dot pajamas!” I tucked that line away in my head to remember forever. That same night, back at the hotel, she wet the bed, and I stood in the dark laundry room at 1 a.m. waiting for the sheets to wash, crying because I had a big work presentation due the next day I hadn’t even finished outlining. That’s when the thought came back, sharp: Do I regret this?
I brought it up, half-embarrassed, at my 8-year-old’s next asthma checkup. Our pediatrician is a mom of three teenagers, so she doesn’t do the polished “motherhood is magical” speech. She leaned back in her chair and said that regret isn’t usually a statement about your kids. It’s a signal that something you need isn’t getting met right now. That line stuck with me, and it changed how I handle those thoughts when they pop up.
I started doing a tiny thing: when the vague “I regret everything” feeling hits, I stop and name the exact thing I’m actually regretting, out loud, quiet enough the kids can’t hear. It’s almost never “I regret my kids.” It’s “I regret that I can’t finish a whole cup of coffee while it’s still hot.” It’s “I regret that I can’t take a spontaneous weekend trip with my partner like we did before kids.” It’s “I regret that my boss got mad at me for leaving work early to pick up a sick kid.” Naming it pulls the teeth out of the thought. It stops being a shameful secret that makes me a bad parent, and becomes just a normal complaint about a hard, tiring day.
The other thing I started doing is stealing 15 minutes of unshared time every single day, no exceptions. Before, I thought I needed a whole weekend away at a spa to reset, and we can’t afford a babysitter for that, so I never did anything for myself. Now, after I drop the kids at school, I sit in my car in the grocery store parking lot for 15 minutes. I drink a cold lemon soda I stashed in the cooler the night before, and I scroll through whatever dumb meme account I want, no one knocking on the window asking for snacks or a ride. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s enough to take the edge off the constant “someone needs something” feeling that hangs over most days.
I also started a tiny group chat with three other moms from my kid’s elementary school, and we have one rule: when someone admits they had a day where they regretted having kids, no one gives a pep talk. No “it gets better,” no “you’re such a great mom.” We just say “That sucks, I was there Tuesday. Want me to drop a coffee off at your house after pickup?” It’s way more helpful than any empty encouragement.
An hour after the door slam the other night, my 12-year-old crept out of their room and brought me a half-melted chocolate chip cookie they’d hidden in their backpack from lunch that day. Said they were sorry for snapping. I ate the cookie, even though it was crumbly and a little warm, and we didn’t talk about the trash. It still sat by the door until my partner got home and took it out. That’s the messy part no one posts about: the hard moments don’t get fixed perfectly, they just soften a little.
Last night, I was sitting on my front porch after the kids went to bed, drinking a warm beer, when my neighbor who has two kids in college walked by. I asked her if she ever regretted having kids, and she leaned on the fence, thought for a minute, and said “Some days I still do. I miss the job I quit when they were little, I miss being able to go out to dinner on a Tuesday night without planning it for a week. But I don’t regret them. I just regret I can’t have both, most of the time.”
That’s where I’m at right now. Some days the thought still pops up, uninvited, over a spilled laundry basket or a missed deadline or a slammed door. I don’t push it down anymore, and I don’t feel guilty for it. It’s just a hard moment, not a life sentence. I still don’t know what the “right” answer is to that viral question, anyway. Most days, mine is: some parts, yes. All of it, no. And that’s okay.
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