Time is running our for my friend. We are sitting at lunch when she
casually mentions that she and her husband are thinking of "starting a
family". What she means is that her biological clock is ticking and has
begun its final countdown.
"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 the weekend, 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 childbearing heal, but that becoming a mother
will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will be forever
vulnerable.
I consider warning her
that she will never read a newspaper again without asking "What if that had
been MY child?" That every plane crash, every 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 child care, but one day she will be going into an important business
meeting and she will think about 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
McDonalds 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 lbs 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 ways she thinks. I wish she could
understand how much more you can love a man who is always careful to powder the
baby or 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'll feel with women throughout history who have tried
desperately to stop war and 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 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 say finally. 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
