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
     family." What she means is that her biological clock has begun its
     countdown and she is being forced to consider the prospect of
     motherhood.

     "We're taking a survey," she says, half jokingly. "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 Saturdays, no more  spontaneous vacations..."

     But that is not what I mean 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 childbirth 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 look at the mothers and wonder if
     anything could be worse than watching your child die.

     I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think
     she should know that no matter how sophisticated she is,
     becoming a motherwill immediately reduce her to the primitive
     level of a she-bear protecting her cub. That a slightly urgent call
     of "Mom!" will cause her to drop a soufflé or her best crystal without
     a moment's hesitation. That the anger she will feel if that call came
     over a lost toy, will be a joy she has never before experienced.

     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 successfully arrange for child care, but one day she will be
     waiting to go into an important business meeting, and she will think
     about her baby's sweet smell.  She will have to use every ounce of
     discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure he is all
right.

     I want my friend to know that everyday routine decisions will no
     longer be routine. That a visit to McDonald's and a five-year-old
     boy's understandable desire to go to the men's room rather than the
     women's room 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 the rest room.

     I want her to know that 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 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.

     She will also begin to hope for more years, not so much to accomplish
     her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish his.

     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, I know, 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 who never hesitates to play "bad guy" with
     his son. I think she should know that she will fall in love with her
     husband again for reasons she would now find very unromantic.

     I wish my modern friend could sense the bond she will feel with
     other women throughout history who have tried desperately to stop war
and prejudice and drunk driving. I hope she will understand why I think
     rationally about most issues, but become temporally 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 son
     learn to hit a baseball. I want to capture for her the belly laugh
     of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog for the first time. I
     want her to taste the joy that is so real that it 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, and squeezing my friend's hand, I offer a prayer for
her
     and me and all the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this
     holiest of callings.

     Author Unknown

Happy Mother's Day to all. Hope you find your joy today!
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