workin hard
Icebox
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 "Mom!" will
cause her to drop a souffle 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 honour. 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.
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 "Mom!" will
cause her to drop a souffle 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 honour. 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.
(
