Becoming a mom

This is a great early Mother's Day message... 

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 soufflî`r 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 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 caesarean 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 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.