Fwd: Motherhood

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Shawn Cosgrove

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From: SHAWN20717@aol.com
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Subject: Fwd: Motherhood
Date: Sat, 6 Jun 1998 17:54:53 EDT
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Subject: Motherhood
Date: Sat, 6 Jun 1998 06:15:06 EDT
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MOTHERHOOD
Author Unknown

Time is running out 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 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 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.

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