Being a Mother

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 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.

Author Unknown