| This year |
| All years |
We are sitting at lunch when my friend 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 friend, 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 soufflé 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 friend 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 friend, 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 friend'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 friend 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
friend 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 friend'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 friend'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. The blessed gift of God and that of being a Mother.