We are sitting, having lunch when my daughter casually mentions that she and her husband are thinking of "starting a family".
- We are doing a research - she says, half-joking. - Do you think I should have a baby?
- It will change your life - I say, carefully keeping neutral my tone. .
- I know - she says. - No more sleeping on weekends, no more spontaneous vacations ...

But that is not what I meant. 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 an emotional hurt 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 children dying of hungry, she will wonder if anything could be worse than watching your child die.
I look at her manicured nails, 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 hesitating even for a moment.
I feel I should warn her that no matter how many years invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood. She might arrange a childcare, but one day will enter into an important business meeting and she'll think about the smell of her baby. She will have to use every ounce of her discipline to keep herself there, and avoid running home, just to make sure that your baby is fine.
I want my daughter to know that decisions day to day no longer be routine, that the decision of a 5 year old boy to go to the men's bathroom rather than to 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 the bathroom.
No matter how assertive she is in office, she will second-guess constantly as a mother.
Looking at my attractive daughter, I want to assure her that the pregnancy weight she will lose eventually, but it will never feel the same about herself, her life, now so important, it will be of less value when she has a child , that she would give a moment to save her young face - but she will also begin to hope 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 the way she thinks. I wanted her to understand how much more you can love a man who is careful to powder the baby or who never hesitates to play with his son. 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, that have tried to stop war, prejudice and drunk driving.
I hope she will understand why I can think rationally about most things, but become temporarily insane when I discuss the threat of nuclear war for the future of my children.
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 beautiful 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 that hurts.
The quizzical look of my daughter makes me realize that I have tears in my eyes.

- You'll never regret it - I say finally.

So I stretch my hand across the table, squeeze his hand and offer a silent prayer for her and for me and for all the mere mortal women who stumble their way what is one of the most wonderful callings, this blessed gift of God, being a mother.