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What
It Means To Be A Mom 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 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 in to
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 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 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 hers. I want her to know that a caesarian 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 the mere mortal women who stumble their
way into this most wonderful of callings. This blessed gift from God...that of
being a mother. Author Unknown |