“Was I too hard on Margot last night?” she whispers.
“Yes,” I say plainly.
Eden sips her wine. I can tell she’s fighting off the feeling of defensiveness that’s curled in her chest. The topic of motherhood, even if it’s not a fit, can peel away every nerve protection we have. It’s something society pressures every woman to reckon with, and answer to in some capacity. Nuanced conversations are by and large unwelcome. Even when we find a safe space, none of us know how to say the things we’ve been taught to never admit.
“I don’t think that the world needs more of her kind of mother,” she says.
“You don’t even know what kind of mother she will be yet,” I say. “She doesn’t even know. Before children, we think we know so much about what we want to do, how we want to do things, but I’ve seen women turn complete one-eighties as soon as they give birth.”
Aimee approaches with a full bottle of red wine, eager to join the motherhood conversation.
“Being a mother is the first thing I was ever bad at,” she says.
“And you have three kids? That might be something you want to keep to yourself,” Eden says.
“She’s lying. I’ve known her since her first day as a mother, and she’s always been flawless,” I tell Eden.
“No way, not even close, but that’s the best part. Having to learn and struggle. Most things in life came pretty easily for me, but I’ve had to work at getting motherhood right. When the effort pays off and it finally clicks in some small way, it’s incredibly rewarding.”
I’ve never heard Aimee say anything like this before. That being a mother isn’t completely natural for her. It sounds like she’s had doubts. She’s made mistakes. She’s relied on trial and error. Could I really not know this? It’s possible. When we connect, it’s rarely over parenting. Maybe all I see of her as a mother is the highlight reel, not the behind-the-scenes struggles.
Aimee pushes her wineglass away and rubs her finger around the water ring left on the table. “It gets easier and it doesn’t. Every kid is different; every parent-child dynamic is its own thing. It’s like my husband says: everything he writes teaches him a new lesson. He feels like he’s starting over from scratch every single time. Like delivering babies.”
“What about it?” I ask, not seeing the parallel.
“Is every birth experience the same? Every labor, every C-section, every pregnant woman?”
“Of course not,” I say.
“You have pride in the knowledge and experience you’ve gained from the past, but also find daily self-esteem from knowing what situation calls for, say, forceps or an episiotomy, and which delivery can push without it.”
“The small things matter,” I say. I’d never thought of mothering as deeply as my work. How could something so fascinating to her be so utterly pedestrian to me?
Aimee pulls her wine closer and takes a sip. We look away from each other, reminded that we shouldn’t exclude Eden from our conversation.
“How do you know you don’t want kids?” Aimee asks Eden.
“How did you know you did?” Eden returns the question.
“I just knew,” Aimee says.
“And were you right?” Eden continues.
“I was.”
“You haven’t changed your mind like everyone assumes I will?” Eden asks.
“I haven’t,” Aimee says.
“It’s the same for me. I just know,” Eden says.
Neither Eden nor Aimee regrets her choice, despite landing on different sides of the child question, but what if I have some? I could never say that out loud. Ever. Even thinking it feels disloyal.
Besides, it’s not accurate. It’s not like I wanted kids, had them, and then decided I didn’t want them. I never felt that desperate need to procreate in the first place, but I didn’t think that was a requirement. My family expected it, Joe wanted them, and it didn’t occur to me to wonder one way or the other. I didn’t “just know” anything the way both Eden and Aimee declare. It sort of happened. But I resent the idea that now that I have them, my whole world should be different.
“They don’t have to change everything if you don’t want them to,” I say.
Eden and Aimee both look horrified by my statement. Now that it’s out of my mouth I realize that it could be interpreted as pushing Eden to have children, when it’s really a defense of my own stance. Still, it’s disturbing to see them react identically.
“What?” I ask. “Why are you both looking at me like that?”
“My whole identity was turned upside down. I left my job in magazines, I moved apartments, my body was split open,” Aimee says. “I know that was extreme, but I didn’t think upheaval was a choice.”
“I’m with Aimee on this one,” Eden says. “Drastic change shouldn’t be optional. Why have them if you won’t let them transform you? That should be part of the deal.”
In my practice, I saw women change in all kinds of ways. The practical woman suddenly cried at every visit. The ones who thought they’d be a stay-at-home-mom couldn’t wait to get back to work. The ambivalent woman fell hard during pregnancy. The consummate caretaker couldn’t bond with her infant. The list went on in every direction.
There was no way to predict what would change, only that change was inevitable—and that was exactly what I inoculated myself against. I didn’t care if it was good change or bad change; I didn’t want anything to be different once I became a mother. I loved my life, and I’d carefully constructed it. No eight-pound wrecking ball was going to threaten that. No hormones were going to convince me otherwise. By not succumbing to the emotional journey, I could keep the ship straight.
I drain my wineglass and stand, in search of water. “I’m off to find some of the fathers on this trip, to hear how drastically their lives changed after having kids.”
I walk past Rini and Margot deep in conversation.
“Ten minutes until s’mores,” Rini calls out to me in passing.
“I’ll be back by then.”
There are carafes full of ice water on the table outside, but I need a moment of peace as much as I need hydration. Inside I take a drinking glass from the cabinet and set it under the faucet until it turns cold. I gulp down half the glass in one sip.