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Date Posted: 19:07:42 01/04/06 Wed
Author: No name
Subject: beautiful and true

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-jokingly. "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?" Every plane crash, every house
fire will haunt her. 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 souffl� 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 child care, 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 McDonalds 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 his.

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 known only to God.

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