The author of the story is unknown.
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 he r. 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 rat her
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 thi nks.
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.
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