I was sitting at lunch when my friend 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 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 child bearing 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 soufflé 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 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 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 caesarian 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.

Author Unknown