A few years back, I was having a conversation with a friend a few years my senior. I was a bright-faced newlywed, fresh from the altar and a three-tiered, strawberry-flavored wedding cake and a magical honeymoon on the beach. My friend—let’s call her A. —had been married for about five years, and had one child.
I was gushing about how much I loved my husband in that open, annoying way that all newlyweds do, when I noticed a loud silence from her end of the line.
‘A.? You still there?’
After a moment’s pause, she sighed and answered, “Yes, I’m still here. Sorry that I blanked out for a minute…” I thought I detected a note of exasperation—or could it have been boredom?–in her tone.
We continued talking, although our words were now swirled through with an awkward flavor. I felt strange, but what A. said next caused my blood pressure to shoot through the roof.
“It’s so great that you tied the knot, Sam, that’s really awesome. Now, all you need to do is have a kid, and you’ll know the true definition of love.”
The true definition of love? Had I not waxed poetically for the last several minutes on just that topic, my love for my husband? When I said this to her, she made a noise that was a cross between a tiny sneeze and a hiccup.
“You’re talking about falling in love, ” she said slowly, as if talking to an elderly auntie with bad hearing. “I’m talking about real love,
not romantic love. You’ll never know real love until you have a child. “
Once I wrapped my mind around that fact that she was dismissing the foundation of my marriage—love for my husband—as inauthentic, I let her have it. We argued in the nice-nasty way girlfriends do for about 15 minutes, before she hung up the phone in a huff. Sadly, we hardly talk at all these days.
Since the demise of my friendship with A., I’ve had several other women—friends, family members, work associates—voice a version of the same sentiment she held. They have all expressed the belief that lasting, true love blossoms only through the miracle of birthing and raising little ones. There is something condescending and judgmental about this, and I stoutly refuse to believe it. Although I have yet to feel the unique bond shared between mother and child, I–and countless other young women who haven’t yet become moms–have indeed felt and known love.
My husband is first and largest in my affections…but how much I love him has been mentioned previously (I’m not a newlywed anymore, I won’t drone on about it; just know that his is the most real, lasting love I know). I posses a protective and unbreakable love for my sister, whom has been my best friend ever since I can remember. My mom was probably the first person I loved: she carried me, she nurtured me, she guided me. Are all these feelings, these bonds, not real, true love?
Yes, a mother’s love is unique and dazzling and powerful…but it’s not the only type of “real” love. The notion of “You’ll only experience true love when you have kids” is condescending and rude, and has dimmed the hopeful glimmer of motherhood within many future moms, myself included. Thankfully, I’ve been able to look past these types of insensitive remarks; I look forward to experiencing the special bond of mother and child. And even though A. and I don’t talk very often, I forgive her for saying something she many not have realized cut so deeply. She’s a great mother, and I hope we can patch things up so that I may tell her that again in person soon.
Current moms, do you remember being completely engrossed in the love of your spouse or friends or family before you had kids? Having a child does not void all of these other forms of love. I believe that giving birth adds another beautiful layer of love to our lives, but it’s just as real and heavy and important as a sibling’s love, or the bond between husband and wife . No type of love should be minimized, and every type of love should be celebrated.
