"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
moment's 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 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 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 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 children 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.

Please share this with a Mom that you know or all of your girlfriends
who may someday be Moms. May you always have in your arms the one who is
in your heart.