For the moms out there…

"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 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 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 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 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 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
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.