I have to confess something few people know. For most of my daughter’s life I’ve been a reluctant mother.
It’s not that I got pregnant as a teenager, knocked-up after a wild night of debauchery, or stumbled into any of the typical, tragic unexpected motherhood situations so popularized in the tabloid news. I was “raised right”. I was responsible. I was married for five years before I ever in my life got pregnant, even though we weren’t trying. And in theory, we wanted kids. It was the “in practice” part I struggled with.
No, I was not reluctant because motherhood was thrust or forced upon me at a tender or inconvenient age. It’s just that it was never my calling, and I did have a calling. From a very early age I longed to be a writer. I had bigger plans than mommyhood: novels, travel, money, and fame—maybe even transformed hearts and minds. In my wildest dreams, a legacy that would last the ravages of history.
Plus, being a mother never looked like much fun. Whether watching my own mother or the moms of my friends, it didn’t seem like motherhood was a very satisfying, easy or meaningful (in any kind of big, outer-world way) path. As the oldest of four kids, I witnessed my parents fulfill classic 1950s era roles—mom stayed home, cooked, cleaned and raised the kids, and dad went to the office every day. With four, mom had her hands full. Imagine this juxtaposed against my daily viewing of Oprah, then just getting started in Chicago where I lived, rapidly ascending to super-womanhood and you 
get the picture.
I mean my parents neither disrespect nor blame—they were products of their times and choices both. But I had choices my mother never did, and to me, it sure looked like dad (and Oprah) was having a hell of a lot more fun. So I went to college, got a degree in Communication, and started a career. A few years later, I married the fascinating man I’m still married to today. Despite the glass-ceiling breakthroughs of baby-boomer women in the generation preceding me, I had a hard time seeing how working motherhood would work. Marriage, sure, but throw a kid in the mix? I knew it was possible, but was it desirable?
Not to me. Alas the universe conspires, and I got pregnant anyway. I’ll skip the subconscious self- psycho-analysis that is probably the reason why (or you can add your own in comments below) and just tell you that nine months later, our daughter Alexandra was born.
For someone who didn’t really want a kid, I hit the jackpot. Got exactly what I, having accepted the reality of my pregnancy, dreamed of: a little red-haired clone of myself, her looks significant because thanks to my husband’s dark Latin features I thought I didn’t have a prayer of producing offspring that resembled me in the least.
She was a great baby, pre-schooler and child. No sleeping or eating issues. Never had any serious health problems. Smart, athletic, funny and pretty. Willing to let us drag her along on our many international sojourns, and often by the end of them, dragging us! She was, and is, truly a blessing.
This year Alexandra turned thirteen.
Thirteen: the age that strikes fear, dread and foreboding into the hearts of many teenage daughter’s parent. I, however, had quite a different if not ironic experience.
Around the time of Alexandra’s birthday earlier this year, reading this post by Ann Handley made me nostalgic for my daughter even though she’s several years away from leaving the nest. Already I’m getting a whiff of that sidelined feeling Anne writes about. Then I realized why. The sidelining slowly happens from the moment our kids are born.
For those of you reading this who are not parents, for women especially who are not mothers but may be contemplating that journey, know this. When you produce the next generation of life, an instinctive, innate realization kicks in about your own life: It’s not about you anymore. It’s about, at the most basic level, ensuring the survivability—and thrive-ability—of your future generations.
