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 soufflé or her best crystal without a

moments 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 her self.





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 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.