A Mother's Child
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
caesarian 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 a joy so real
that 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 ...that of being a
Mother.
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Mother's Child
