The Maternal Question

Is Parenthood Rewarding? Well, Yes and No.

At first I thought it was a conspiracy. Since having my first baby nearly a year and a half ago, and my second in July, the question everyone asks me -- and I mean everyone: friends, relatives, acquaintances, total strangers -- is how I like being a mom. It seems innocuous enough, but they might as well ask me if I'm a good person, or if I've ever lied on my taxes. Of course, you're not supposed to actually think of an answer. You're supposed to give an immediate, knee-jerk, how-could-it-be-otherwise response: "It's great." A pause. A broad smile. "Just great!"

But I've never been one to say "fine" when people ask me how I'm doing, unless I really am. I'm not one to tell you the dress doesn't make you look fat if it does. And I almost never laugh at jokes that I don't find funny. (My husband thinks this is why we're no longer invited to parties.) So when I'm asked how I like being a mom, I typically stammer something about lack of sleep and truckloads of diapers that leaves people wondering whether they should call child protective services.

The truth is I came to be a mother reluctantly. My husband and I had been married six years and had established careers. And although we were only in our early thirties -- by no means running out of time -- we were at the point where it was time to decide whether we wanted to take the next logical step and start a family.

For my husband, it was easy. He was certain he wanted children. He always wanted to be a father and pretty much always assumed he would be.

For me, it was harder. I had never been a woman who dreamt her whole life of being a mom. I liked my life just as it was. I had a husband whom I loved, dogs I loved, and horses I loved, and they all loved me. What was the point of children? And between the dogs and the horses, I did all the nurturing I needed. I would sleep on the couch with our dog during thunderstorms. Once, after my horse was kicked badly by another horse, my husband and I spent three hours at the vet on a Saturday night holding her, stroking her neck, talking to her softly while the doctor put more than 100 stitches in her leg. For two months, I had to soak her leg and reapply bandages every day -- a routine that easily took an hour and a half. It never bothered me.

But the idea of being up at night with a sick child or having another human being totally dependent on me just made me want to lie down and sleep for a long, long time.

Instead, I went to therapy. The conversations usually went something like this:

ME: How do I know if I'll like being a mother?

THERAPIST: You don't.

ME: Well, what if I become a mother and then hate it?

THERAPIST: It's possible.

ME: Why do people have kids?

THERAPIST: For all sorts of reasons.

ME: So what do I do?