Motherhood

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 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 soufflé 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.