Mother's Day Story....
Beware... Tears will form... and prob fall... but it's oh so sweet!
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 souffle 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 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 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 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 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 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 of the mere mortal women
who stumble their way into this most wonderful of callings.
This blessed gift from God . . that of being a Mother.
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 souffle 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 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 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 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 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 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 of the mere mortal women
who stumble their way into this most wonderful of callings.
This blessed gift from God . . that of being a Mother.
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