Being a Mum
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 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 "Mum!" 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.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment