A
Baby
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.
Please
share this with a Mom that you know or a
future
Mom you know.
Author Unknown
