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 a family.” What she means is that her
biological clock has begun its countdown and she is considering 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.
“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 mother will immediately reduce her to the primitive level. That a slightly urgent call of “Mom!” will cause her to drop her best crystal without a moment’s hesitation.
