We are sitting at lunch when my daughter casually mentions that she
and her husband are thinking of "starting a family." "We're
taking a survey," she says, half-joking. "Do you think I should
have a baby?"
"It will change your life," I say, carefully keeping my tone
neutral.
"I know," she says, "No more sleeping in on weekends,
no more spontaneous vacations...."
But that is not what I meant at all. I look at my daughter, trying
to decide what to tell her. I want her to know what she will never learn
in childbirth classes. I want to tell her that the physical wounds of
child bearing will heal, but that becoming a mother will leave her with
an emotional wound so raw that she will forever be vulnerable. I consider
warning her that she will never again read a newspaper without asking
"What if that had been MY child?" That every plane crash,
every house fire will haunt her. That when she sees pictures of starving
children, she will wonder if anything could be worse than watching your
child die.
I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think
that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce
her to the primitive level of a bear protecting her cub. That an urgent
call of "Mom!" will cause her to drop a souffle or her best
crystal without a moment's hesitation.
I feel I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested
in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood. She
might arrange for childcare, but one day she will be going into an important
business meeting and she will think of her baby's sweet smell. She will
have to use every ounce of her discipline to keep from running home,
just to make sure her baby is all right.
I want my daughter to know that everyday decisions will no longer be
routine. That a five- year- old boy's desire to go to the men's room
rather than the women's at McDonald's will become a major dilemma. That
right there, in the midst of clattering trays and screaming children,
issues of independence and gender identity will be weighed against the
prospect that a child molester may be lurking in that restroom. However
decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself constantly
as a mother.
Looking at my attractive daughter, I want to assure her that eventually
she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same
about herself. That her life, now so important, will be of less value
to her once she has a child. That she would give it up in a moment to
save her offspring, but will also begin to hope for more years -- not
to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish theirs.
I want her to know that a cesarean scar or shiny stretch marks will
become badges of honor. My daughter's relationship with her husband
will change, but not in the way she thinks. I wish she could understand
how much more you can love a man who is careful to powder the baby or
who never hesitates to play with his child. I think she should know
that she will fall in love with him again for reasons she would now
find very unromantic.
I wish my daughter could sense the bond she will feel with women throughout
history who have tried to stop war, prejudice and drunk driving. I hope
she will understand why I can think rationally about most issues, but
become temporarily insane when I discuss the threat of nuclear war to
my children's future.
I want to describe to my daughter the exhilaration of seeing your child
learn to ride a bike. I want to capture for her the belly laugh of a
baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog or a cat for the first time.
I want her to taste the joy that is so real, it actually hurts.
My daughter's quizzical look makes me realize that tears have formed
in my eyes.
"You'll never regret it," I finally say. Then I reach across
the table, squeeze my daughter's hand and offer a silent prayer for
her, and for me, and for all of the mere mortal women who stumble their
way into this most wonderful of callings. This blessed gift from God
-- that of being a Mother.