When I was 29 and six months’ pregnant with my first child, an older co-worker told me about a fancy lunch she’d just had with her young adult son. They’d gone to some haute cuisine downtown restaurant, ordered the cheese plate, and tried a variety of wines. But as she shared the details of their fine-dining experience, my mind wandered to an entirely different topic.
In all my daydreaming about my soon-to-arrive baby, I had hardly thought past the infant stage. But now this wild realization began to bloom in my mind: Babies grow up. And this one, this baby right here that was not yet born—he, too, would grow up and become an adult. And then what? Would we go out for lunch? Would he turn out just like me, someone who loved reading and traveling and making things? Would we be close?
As my co-worker continued describing the outing with her son and their warm relationship and shared love for fancy foods, a definitive thought rose from the depths of my still vague image of motherhood: That’s what I want.
I eventually had two kids, and they both did, in fact, grow up. Now, as I listen to the intense discourse about why people aren’t having children, the expense of day care, the exhaustion and sacrifices of the baby years, I think the conversation is missing the larger point. Most things worth doing are hard, and those years don’t last. Parenting keeps going for years and years after the last diaper change; it is truly the longest of games, but the rewards are ever increasing, and totally exquisite.
