Sunday, May 10, 2009


Today I am even more grateful for my blessings. I used to cringe at the thought of Mother's Day because I do not have a relationship with my mother (much too long and personal of a story to share anything more than that). Last year I cried over everything Mother's Day related because I longed so desparately to be a mother. It hurt too much to even publish the blog post I created about Mother's Day last year.

One year ago we were completing our final treatment cycle. If it didn't work out then we were supposed to move on to a new treatment plan. I felt doubtful because only one follicle developed but knowing that we would have a plan to move forward with helped me stay positive. I remember trying not to get too attached as we watched that little follicle grow with each ultra sound yet I would fall asleep with my hand on my belly as if I was keeping that one follicle warm.

I'm tearing up right now just thinking back to that and what comes to mind is THANK GOD.

Happy Mother's Day. And if you're hurting today, I'm thinking of and praying for you too.

I have saved the following for more than 5 years. I've read it several times since then but it means more today than ever.

"For those of us that are mothers, you will
understand every word and every meaning. For those of you that it's your first time, don't worry it won't be long before you do.

We are sitting at lunch 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 that 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 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 her 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 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 it 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 caesarean 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'd understand how much more you can love a man who is careful to powder the baby or who never hesitates 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 hope she will understand why I can think rationally about most issues, but become temporarily insane when I discuss the threat of nuclear war to my children's future. 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 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 reach across the table, squeeze my daughter's hand and offer a silent prayer for her, and for me, and for all of the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this most wonderful of callings.

This blessed gift from God . . . that of being a


  1. Thank you for sharing such a beautiful post. This made me teary and excited for everything I hope to experience in a few short months.

  2. Aww, Happy Mother's Day to you!