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MerryGlenne

I'm the editor of skirt! in Augusta, GA/Aiken, SC

I'm a bargain shopper, a hippie, my own worst critic, honest to a fault, and always on a diet. I'm most happy at home with my new hubby and, the other love of my life, my 5-year-old long-haired dauchshund Divot. ...

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Trisha's Happy Mother's Day Email

I got this sweet email from one of my mom’s best friends today wishing me a happy mother’s day... Wow! Now, that’s a first.

She also sent the following forwarded message to me...I had to pull over as it made me cry (what  doesn’t make me cry right now?) and think about my upcoming role as a mother.

Here ya go...

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
souffle 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
herself.  That her life, now so important, will be  of
less value to her once she has a child.

That she would give  up everything 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 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 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 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.