"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 holidays..."
But that's 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 child bearing will heal, but becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will be vulnerable forever.
I consider warning her that she will never again read a newspaper without thinking: "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.
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 child care, but one day she will be going into an important business meeting, and she will think her baby's sweet smell. She will have to use every ounce of discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure her child is all right.
I want my friend to know that every decision 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 a restaurant will become a major dilemma. The issues of independence and gender identity will be weighed against the prospect that a child molester may be lurking in the lavatory. 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 added weight of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same about herself. That her own life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a child. 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 children accomplish theirs.
I want to describe to my friend the exhilaration of seeing your child learn to hit a ball. 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 it hurts.
My friend's look makes me realize that tears have formed in my eyes. "You'll never regret it," I say finally. Then, squeezing my friend's hand, I offer a prayer for her and me and all of the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this holiest of callings.
時光任苒，朋友已經(jīng)老大不小了。我們坐在一起吃飯的時候，她漫不經(jīng)心地提到她和她的丈夫正考慮要小孩。“我們正在做一項調查，”她半開玩笑地說。“你覺得我應該要個小孩嗎？”
“他將改變你的生活。”我小心翼翼地說道，盡量使語氣保持客觀。“這我知道。”她答道，“周末睡不成懶覺，再也不能隨心所欲休假了……”
但我說的絕非這些。我注視著朋友，試圖整理一下自己的思緒。我想讓她知道她永遠不可能在分娩課上學到的東西。我想讓她知道：分娩的有形傷疤可以愈合，但是做母親的情感傷痕卻永遠如新，她會因此變得十分脆弱。
我想告誡她：做了母親后，每當她看報紙時就會情不自禁地聯(lián)想：“如果那件事情發(fā)生在我的孩子身上將會怎樣啊！”每一次飛機失事、每一場住宅火災都會讓她提心吊膽。看到那些忍饑挨餓的孩子們的照片時，她會思索：世界上還有什么比眼睜睜地看著自己的孩子餓死更慘的事情呢？我打量著她精修細剪的指甲和時尚前衛(wèi)的衣服，心里想到：不管她打扮多么考究，做了母親后，她會變得像護崽的母熊那樣原始而不修邊幅。
我覺得自己應該提醒她，不管她在工作上投入了多少年，一旦做了母親，工作就會脫離常規(guī)。她自然可以安排他人照顧孩子，但說不定哪天她要去參加一個非常重要的商務會議，卻忍不住想起寶寶身上散發(fā)的甜甜乳香。她不得不拼命克制自己，才不致于為了看看孩子是否安然無羔而中途回家。
我想告訴朋友，有了孩子后，她將再也不能按照慣例做出決定。在餐館，5歲的兒子想進男廁而不愿進女廁將成為擺在她眼前的一大難題：她將在兩個選擇之間權衡一番：尊重孩子的獨立和性別意識，還是讓他進男廁所冒險被潛在的兒童性騷擾者侵害？任憑她在辦公室多么果斷，作為母親，她仍經(jīng)常事后后悔自己當時的決定。
注視著我的這位漂亮的朋友，我想讓她明確地知道，她最終會恢復到懷孕前的體重，但是她對自己的感覺已然不同。她現(xiàn)在視為如此重要的生命將隨著孩子的誕生而變得不那么寶貴。為了救自己的孩子，她時刻愿意獻出自己的生命。但她也開始希望多活一些年頭，不是為了實現(xiàn)自己的夢想，而是為了看著孩子們美夢成真。
我想向朋友形容自己看到孩子學會擊球時的喜悅之情。我想讓她留意寶寶第一次觸摸狗的絨毛時的捧腹大笑。我想讓她品嘗快樂，盡管這快樂真實得令人心痛。
朋友的表情讓我意識到自己已經(jīng)是熱淚盈眶。“你永遠不會后悔，”我最后說。然后緊緊地握住朋友的手，為她、為自己、也為每一位艱難跋涉、準備響應母親職業(yè)神圣的召喚的平凡女性獻上自己的祈禱
