"Listen to this," I say to my husband across the breakfast table. "This study says motherhood may make women smarter. Lab-mouse mothers learned more quickly, made fewer mistakes and retained knowledge longer than childless mice."
"Who did the research?" my husband asks.
"Doesn't matter," I say. "Somebody good."
A maternal edge on intelligence is welcome news to me and every other mother I know. We will not be easily disabused of these findings, which actually come from researchers at the University of Richmond and Randolph Macon College.
Until now, we feared the opposite was true.
Wake those little rodent mamas in the middle of the night for a month or two, and they'll soon forget how to clean their fur and chew.
Make that 14 months of interrupted sleep, as in my case, and they'll begin missing hair appointments, leaving their groceries at the store and forgetting the names of their children.
Or forgetting the names of the groceries and leaving the kids at the store.
Still, deep in our hearts, we moms know that's only short-term. Motherhood makes you exhausted, exhilarated, irritable, emotional and bossy.
But most of all, motherhood makes you wise.
Eyes in back of head, too
Ours, we humbly assert, is a wisdom rarely seen by the world. We ourselves are surprised by it. We have aptitudes that, as young, single women, we never could have imagined.
We can feed a baby with one hand and make spaghetti with the other. We can navigate our car through heavy traffic and crashing thunderstorms while making up stories about golden fairies and talking frogs. Give us crayons, a straw and a restaurant place mat and, voila, we've got an art project.
Our skills are singular, and job-specific. We're good at reading wobbly penmanship, fine print on cough-medicine packages, and small human hearts.
One look at a child's face and we can tell what kind of day it's been.
We can feel a fever coming on 24 hours before it registers on a thermometer.
And we have this odd, inexplicable ability to hear dreams never uttered, dry tears never shed, chase off monsters never articulated, and locate presents never wished for.
No matter what skills earn us our paycheck, no matter what title hangs outside our office door, our true business is human beings.
Looking out for the world
The beauty of these gifts is that they spread beyond our own circumstances. In the lab-rat world, this is known as transference.
Mothers start out fighting like Dobermans for their own child, but quickly become champions of every other child as well.
"That display is going to topple onto some child's head," we warn a grocery clerk stacking cans of vegetables.
"Why can't you serve carrot sticks instead of french fries?" we lobby restaurant owners.
"There's no place for a child in a wheelchair," we complain to theater owners.
In malls we scan for lost children. On roadways we brake for abandoned kittens. In church we make silly faces to distract screaming toddlers in the next pew.
We know the best children's authors, the safest teething biscuits, the cheapest haircuts, the most spill-proof sippy cups.
And if you don't ask for our wisdom, we'll share it anyway.
It's all part of the deal.
We belong to this sisterhood. Our dues are 2 a.m. feedings. Our uniform is shorter earrings and larger purses. Our secret greeting is a hug.
And our task, as we see it, is to take care of the world.
Krista Ramsey's column appears on Saturdays. Write her at the Enquirer, 312 Elm St. Cincinnati 45202.
RAMSEY ARCHIVE
