From a forwarded email:
We are sitting at lunch one day 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 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 moments hesitation.
I feel that 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 discipline to keep from running home,
just to make sure her baby is all right.
I want my daughter to know that
every day 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 herself 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 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 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 reached
across the table, squeezed my daughter’s hand and offered a silent prayer for
her, and for me, and for all the mere mortal women who stumble their way into
this most wonderful of callings.
Please share this with a Mom that you
know or all of your girlfriends who may someday be Moms.
May you always have in your arms the one who is in your
heart
