Motherhood

Someone had included a print out of this poem in a card I received. I wish I knew who it is from. I must have set it aside and forgotten about it, or got distracted... as I just found it. I am trying to straighten up for our visitors. I figure if I start now, I may be done by the time they get here. Anyway, I am a big believer in things happening for a reason, when they were meant to happen. And I think that if I had read this at a different time, earlier, it wouldn't have meant as much to me. So I am reading it with Hayden at my feet, rolling around and laughing because, after much time and effort, he has gotten his lion toy to light up and play music. And he is ecstatic about it. And I am bawling. Because as I am reading this poem, and he is laughing, I realize that in his joy over his simple (not so simple) accomplishment, I have found true and complete happiness. Like none I have ever known before, with those words in my hands, describing the feelings I am feeling, as I feel them. I know that if I never do anything worthwhile for the rest of my life, I will know that I have done the most important thing, created him, loved him. More then he will ever know, until he has his own child. Then he will know what it is to awaken a love so pure and so complete that it improves every aspect of your life. It makes you love more, even if you didn't think it was possible. Because, honestly, I never thought I could love Matthew more than I did. But that was because I never had the opportunity to love him as the father of my child. But when I see him playing with Hayden, making him laugh, or just holding him, feeding him, those mundane things become so beautiful and amazing. Because I know that he does it with the same love that I have, that we share. So here is the story. Thank you to whom ever it was that gave it to me. It is a priceless gift.

Being A Mom

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 childbearing 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 airplane 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 manicures 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 moments 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 to 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 alright.

I want my daughter to know that every day decisions will no longer be routine. That a five year old'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 tell 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 a cat, for the first time. I want her to taste the joy that is so real, it hurts.

My daughter's quizzical look makes me realize that tears have formed in my eyes. 'You will never regret it,' I finally say. Then I reached across my the table and squeezed my daughter's hand and offer a silent prayer for her, and for me, and for all the mortal women who stumble their way into this most wonderful of callings.

May you always have in your arms the one who is in your heart.