The Madness of Mommies

Why, you ask, would I associate madness with motherhood? Ask any mother and she can probably offer an answer unique to her experience in attempting to nurture, guide and advise offspring. Give her time to bring out the album and she’ll have the pictures to prove it.

For me, the madness occurred without warning at the birth of my son, just over 33 years ago. I had no idea that the moment I heard his first cry, I would instantly be so unconditionally mad about him. He re-centered my universe, taking my heart outside my body to beat with his forevermore.

In anticipation of motherhood, whether by birth or adoption, we expect to be caretakers, sure. What we don’t know is that we are to be emotionally committed beyond any capacity before understood.

How could I have known that I could be made to weep so easily when his elementary school teacher told me what a good student he was? No one told me how hard it would be to remain quietly in the stands when a coach benched him, even when reason told me the coach was right. I wept again as he crossed the stage to receive his college diploma and burst with pride as his grandparents congratulated him after the ceremony.

When I was blissfully coasting on the hormones of pregnancy, how could I know that I had a life ahead of me so full of fear and pride, second-hand pain and utter joy? There were the “boo-boo’s” of the toddler years, the more serious injuries and illnesses of later years. Though none was life-threatening, there was always in me the wish that I could kiss away the hurt, soothe the angst, and make it all better.

And, as my mother wisely told me, “your child will be your child all your life, even when he is an adult.” And so it is, each disappointment and heartache he knows sets my nerves tingling. Each achievement and happiness he gains warms my heart with that glow I felt the first time I saw him. I revel in seeing the man he has become, the woman he has found to share his life and be his children’s mother. I anticipate happily the fatherhood that is to come for him when the time is right.

Being his mom has taught me, I believe, more than I’ve taught him. I had to learn more patience, less vanity. While I have imparted some of my “neatness mania” to him, I did adjust my standards so that I could merely sigh when I felt swamped by the diapers, the toys, the playpen, the car seat and the never-ending laundry chores. Small children have to be changed more than runway models at a Paris fashion show. It’s not just about keeping them clean, it’s a sanitary issue. Those “oops” moments are odoriferous!

My history is all wound up with his. I was fortunate to have a wonderful career that I remember with pleasure and pride. One of my favorite memories of those years was reaching into my purse during a meeting and finding that I had stuck my hand into the gooey remains of a peanut butter and banana sandwich that had been discarded there. The initial “yuck” response was almost immediately followed with laughter. Wherever I went, he went, too, sometimes in the most unexpected ways.

He came, this child, with a sense of humor that has broadened my own, not just because it included the potty humor for which little boys are infamous, but because his blue eyes see the world in their own special way and I’ve been allowed to share that perspective. He can still make me laugh despite any attempt I might make to remain serious. One of our games when he was little was trying to see who could be cracked up first. Although I was occasionally the victor, he won more often. How could he lose when his very presence could make me smile?

This Mother’s Day I celebrate the great fortune that allowed me to know this “madness of mommies.” I will relish the best gift I get each year on this day (and the days in-between), the pleasure of that big bear hug and that sweet voice, saying, “I love you, Mom.”