The best mom thing....
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, and 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
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