FOR ALL THE MOMS I KNOW . . . .
Posted by: tz8cy5 <tz8cy5@...>
FOR ALL THE MOMS I KNOW . . . .
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-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 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 souffle 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 alright.
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 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 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 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.