I need to come clean. My name is Suzi, I’m a mother and I am crazy. It’s painful to admit and probably difficult to hear but I take comfort in knowing there are millions of others who share my dilemma. You see, motherhood is a state of insanity and if you are not a mother, then you had a mother and if she wasn’t crazy, then you definitely had a friend whose mother was crazy – so you know what I am talking about. It’s inescapable, unavoidable and totally inevitable. When a woman becomes a mother, she enters into a state of insanity that only grows worse with age and I’m sorry to report, is totally irreversible. And sadly, it happened to me.

How exactly did this happen? How did I get from point A - an educated, young, well dressed woman, acting and speaking quite rationally, to Point B – a middle aged woman, dressed in a cotton wife-beater tank top, mismatching flannel pajama pants, no bra (with breasts that have no business being unleashed in public), barefoot, hair disheveled, last night’s mascara under my eyes, at 3:00 in the afternoon screaming at the top of my lungs to my kids while standing in the middle of the neighborhood? I’ve thought about this often. It’s a surreal moment to realize that I’m that mother; I’ve become that crazy woman who, in our old neighborhood, yelled at her kids obnoxiously loud because her frustration carried more weight than her pride.

"Lucas. Lucas!" The screen door slams behind me and when he doesn’t answer right away, "LUCAS!" I holler even louder and in a pitch that makes my voice almost crack, but I know he can hear me from wherever he is.

"What?" It’s very faint but definite.

"Come here!" Some of the kids playing in the street look up.

"What?" He hollers back just a bit more loudly.

"COME here!" Now all of the children stop what they are doing and look up in terror.

"WHAT?" Lucas appears.

"COME HERE!" I now have the attention of everyone within a half-mile radius.

A few seconds later, and a few seconds too late in my mind, poor Lucas shows up.

"When I call your name, don’t keep asking me what. You come to me when I call your name." I now had a new frustration on top of the original one, which for a moment, I completely forgot. "I’ve said it to you before. Don’t make me yell for you!" I’m still shouting at the same decibel I was using when I had yelled ‘COME HERE!’ the last time.

"Sorry," he says but I know he’s not.

"Lucas, didn’t I tell you not to leave the cat in your room with the door closed?"

"Yeah."

Now at this point, we both know what I am about to say and if I was a normal person, in a normal state of mind, that would be the end of the situation. We’d quietly walk back into the house, and my son would know what to do. Nothing more would need to be said but no, remember I’m slightly mad and I mean in all ways, so I continue.

"Then why in the hell did you leave Raven in your room with the door closed?" When the word ‘hell’ was spewing from my mouth, I had a choice to use ‘heck’ instead, but was unable to stop myself.

"I’m sorry, I forgot." Lucas starts for the doorway, maybe thinking the cat was still there and I was calling him to let her out.

"Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you." The nerve.

"Wha-at? I’m going to go let her out."

"I already did that. She crapped all over your room and it stinks like shit. Damn it, we just had the carpets cleaned, too!" Again, I’m totally aware that I’m now using cuss words as I speak to my twelve year old, but oddly over the years the ability to use discretion with tongue has slipped away with my sanity. "Now go and clean it up. Properly!"

Yes, that’s me. Sometimes I catch myself in mid-sentence. Well, actually that’s not totally true – I might catch myself in mid-screaming rage and quiet it down a notch but more often than not, my husband rushes out to save the kids and I with, "Suzi! Shhh. The neighbors can hear." Giving a gesture with his hands for me to lower the level, while raising one eye brow throwing me a questioning look which reveals he’s embarrassed for the whole family and at the same time can’t believe it’s his wife and not his mother that’s acting like a lunatic.

"Oh, I don’t give a shit!" Is my humble answer and I mean it, but get his point and storm back into the house.

At what point did I begin this mysterious transformation? After completing the necessary research, I discovered the answer. The onset of motherhood madness begins at the moment of conception – the moment of the first child’s conception, that is. Studies confirm that a woman’s brain shrinks 3%-5% during pregnancy and that it takes about six months after the birth, for the brain to return to normal size. There you have it! This was very comforting news to me, to know that I wasn’t the only one who was experiencing a noticeable loss of intelligence. The problem is that during those six months following childbirth, like all other young mothers, I learned that I was completely responsible for keeping another human being alive and was largely responsible for what kind of a person they were going to be for the rest of their life, which further propelled my lunacy. The responsibility is a tremendous burden to bear.

And what about childbirth? I’ve pondered how possibly the trauma of labor and delivery affects the long-term mental health of women. Today, the field of psychology recognizes the condition of post-traumatic stress syndrome, PTSD, defined as an anxiety disorder than can develop after exposure to a terrifying event or ordeal in which grave physical harm occurred or was threatened. Well, what the hell do you call it when an object the size of a cantaloupe pushes its way through the opening made for a cucumber? I say that’s a slightly traumatic event. OK, maybe it’s a stretch and unfair to associate true PTSD sufferers with childbirth but I’d say post-childbirth stress disorder, PCSD, isn’t a far cry.

Women have been experiencing the pain since the beginning of time. Epidurals and other pain relief medications are only a recent contribution to birthing mothers, yet women have chosen to repeat this childbirth thing over and over. Some women do it several times. They experience the process one time, and actually choose to do it again, and perhaps again and again. I recall the moment I realized that mothers were slightly off their rockers. I had just given birth to my son and was on my first outing. I looked around at all the other mothers and had an epiphany. Oh my God. They all went through that? That’s ludicrous! I should interject that I was one of those self-righteous martyrs who believed natural childbirth was the only way to go and was determined to have it so. You might ask why I chose to have a natural childbirth, without the aid of any pain medication for my second child. Let’s say it together, now: I was insane.

Some say the reason why women continue to have more children is because they forget the pain of childbirth. Bullshit.

January 10, 1995 3:00 am

"Ffff. Fffff. Fffff. Heeee. Heeee. Heee. Wh. Wh. Wh." I sound off to no one in particular.

"Try counting the tiles," my labor coach (yes, labor coach) instructs me.

"Four, five, six, seven…" I count the square tiles in the hospital shower as a means to distract myself from the pain of the contraction. As if that’ll do it but after enduring the past seven hours of labor, my brain and body were incapable at doing anything more complicated. I take a simple pleasure in the hot water falling on my back.

My husband waits safely outside the shower, watching helplessly and awkwardly as my labor coach stands inside the shower next to me, wearing her swimsuit. I could care less who sees me naked. That’s the sign when a woman is in her last stages of labor – that she has absolutely no concern for who sees her naked. It could be her father watching, the nurses, the next-door neighbor, or the mailman. No difference. Doesn’t matter.

"Fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six…" I cringe and focus every fiber of my being into counting, "Eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one." Holy shit. Contractions are supposed to last only a minute. "Ninety-nine, one hundred. Oh, shit. God. Oh God, finally. I feel the contraction slowly loosen its grip. I need the rest, desperately. I had not slept all night, as my contractions rarely spanned more than three or four minutes apart. "Oh, shit, here it comes again" I shake my head. It hadn’t even been a minute. "One, two, three, four…"

And that’s how water and time flowed for the next forty-five minutes before the joy of pushing came into play. We don’t forget; I remember it very vividly, but the truth is I did it again because…yes, you guessed it: I had lost my mind. You see, the first time we mothers become pregnant, we don’t know any better. We’re innocent, naïve and think "Heck, women have been doing this for years. What could be so bad?" But then why do so many women repeat this process over and over again? I propose that Motherhood made us that way.

How can it be that women go through this most painful experience and don’t caution the next generation: "Don’t do it! Never have kids!" We warn our children to be careful around fire, so as not to burn themselves, because after all, we know from experience that a burn .really hurts. So why don’t the wise elders alert the younger generation, "It really hurts!" Are we mothers slightly sadistic and secretly want to see others in pain? No, we’re just suffering from a slight psychiatric disorder.

Then comes the stage of labor, I mean life, when our closest companions are under the age of five. Our activities revolve around the capabilities and intellect of young children. We crave adult conversation but finding time to shower possesses enough challenge for the day; carrying on a phone conversation with constant noise and objects flying overhead is just about all we can handle; arranging a date with a friend is simply pushing it.

In our conversations with them often find our self constantly arguing. We debate with them their bed time, if they need a bath, what they can eat for dinner or whether or not they can bring their lunch into the family room to watch TV. We are actually discussing this.

At four years old, Lucas carries his plate of macaroni and cheese in one hand and a sippy-cup of juice in the other, making his way towards the couch.

I know where he is going but for reasons I still contemplate, opt to begin the dialogue with a question. "Where are you going with that?"

"I wanna watch Bob da Bewder."

"You can watch Bob when are finished with your lunch." I’m calm, patient and actually have a pleasant tone when I speak, for now.

He keeps walking. "I won’t spill."

"You know the rules. Please come back to the table and eat with Mommy."

"No-o. I wanna watch Tee-Wee."

I realize it’s time for a nap, which won’t happen unless I lay down and sleep along side him. "Lucas, I said come back to the table. I don’t want you to eat in the family room. The family room is for playing and watching TV. The kitchen is where we eat."

"Please. Mommy, please. You wet me before."

"And remember what happened with the spaghetti? Accidents happen, you’re just a little boy. Now please come to the table to eat. You can watch Bob when you are finished."

"Plea-ease."

"No, I said. I don’t want food on the carpet."

"I won’t spill. I promise."

"Lucas, I know you try to be careful but you know the rules. Now come sit down or you’re going to get a time-out."

He keeps walking, just a bit more slowly.

"One….twooooo…three!"

Simultaneously both his body and plate drop to the floor splattering tears and pretty orange noodles onto the carpet.

Sometimes, on a rare awakening of sanity, I step back and realize I’m engaging in a debate with a child who learned only recently to wipe his own butt, as if he or she is an equal and there is actually some uncertainty as to the outcome. Actually there is because sometimes the four-year old or nine-year old or twelve-year old actually wins the debate and convinces you to overturn your verdict in favor of theirs. And carpets need cleaning.

Once a mother, your life immediately becomes about someone else’s. We give ourselves completely to these little things. Our life, even when the kids are gone and out of the house, still in some direct and indirect ways, is still about the children. Are my children okay? Are they making good choices? Are they safe? Are they involved in healthy relationships? Are my children able to support themselves financially? The concerns never end.

All of the sudden mothers transform from slightly selfish, often self-centered girls whose every day consists of pursuing their own personal goals, taking care of only themselves to mothers who are willing to put on hold all of their dreams and aspirations, if necessary for the well being of their children. What seemed so important before now pales in comparison to the significance of raising and loving our child and making choices that are in their best interest.
My son, Lucas, now in the seventh grade, recently presented me with such a situation that once again forced me to reprioritize my life.

"Mom, I don’t want to go to school anymore." He speaks sincerely into my eyes.

These were words I knew one day but secretly hoped not, would be spoken. Lucas’ brain works differently than most children. The world today categorizes his brain function as Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, ADHD, and the public school system is in no way prepared to effectively educate these children. He’s bright, acutely aware of his surroundings, remarkably attuned to others motives and weaknesses, has an amazing curiosity about the world and has plans to be a great entrepreneur one day. His experience in school has been ineffective in providing him with the self-confidence, self-esteem and education for which he’ll need to recognize his strengths and pursue his life’s ambitions.

After seven years of us fighting each other and the school system, trying to work it to our advantage and after a year and half of him suffering from debilitating stomach aches every single day of school (but not on non-school days), Lucas had finally reached both the insight to recognize the problem and the maturity to effectively communicate it to me.

I take a breath deeper than my lungs can fill, "Really? How come?" I know the answer, but wanted to hear it from him directly.

"I can’t deal with these stomach aches any more. I’m miserable at school, Mom. I can’t even concentrate in class most days because my stomach hurts so much. And it’s just so hard. Going from one class to the next, to the next, to the next. And there’s so much homework. It’s just so hard. I can’t keep up. And God, Mr. Lopez is just soooo boring. I’m not learning anything in his class." Lucas expresses himself clearly, without his usual whining. He speaks to me in a sincere, mature voice that I cannot ignore.

"Are you having any problems with friends at school?"

"No." He shrugs his shoulders, and I believe him.

"Do you want to be home-schooled?"

"Yes. Please, Mom."

This was a question I had asked almost every school year at some point or another and he had always answered no; he wanted to be with his friends and I always thanked God for that answer. As my children got older, I had begun to pursue some of my own goals that had been put on the back burner for quite some time, and home schooling would have put quite a wrench in my plans.

After a week of several heartfelt conversations like that one, we decided to withdraw Lucas from the public middle school and embark on a journey not originally part of my 2007-2008 plan. That’s the state of motherhood: constantly stripping away our selfish desires and repeatedly putting on hold, perhaps forever, our dreams for the better of our children. And in that we discover new dreams. Yet, amazingly, there exists in this state both pain and joy. We mothers suffer the pain of losing one part of our identity only to find it again in our strength by doing what is best for our children, and in that we find tremendous joy. However, this confusing state also propels our insanity.

Then there are the moments when you are trying to accomplish one of your many daily, seemingly important goals, and your child reminds you of what is most significant in life.

"Mom, will you come watch TV and cuddle with me." Lucas is almost a teenager, but still such a little boy.

"I can’t right now. I’m working." I don’t take my eyes of the computer screen.

"Please, Mom. Just for a little bit."

"Lucas, just let me finish these emails."

"When will you be done?"

"In a few minutes."

"Will you cuddle with me then?"

"Sure." I really mean it, but time slips by.

"Mom, it’s been thirty minutes. You said you’d be done in a couple of minutes."

"I know, I’m sorry, Lucas. I just need to finish this last email." Another twenty minutes passes.

"Are you finished, yet?"

"Yup, all done." I look up at the time, realize I didn’t get dinner started and it’s already 6:00pm. "Oh, wait, Lucas. Just a couple of more minutes. I need to get dinner going."

"Mom, you said you’d cuddle with me, and that was an hour ago."

"I know, I know. But I need to get dinner going. I’m sorry. Just a few more minutes. I promise."

He abandons his seat on the couch and storms to his room. "You always say that and you never cuddle with me." He attempts slight manipulation with the painful, almost-truth.

I accept the fact that my tasks for the day are endless but time with my young son is not. "I’m sorry, Lucas. Come here. Let’s cuddle." Dinner can wait. We’ll eat sandwiches again.

I don’t always accept defeat so graciously. I often fight with every fiber of my being to complete a goal I’ve set out to accomplish. I do. I would have thought by now that I would have figured this thing out - that I need to be more flexible with my daily and life goals, but as a mother I can’t win. If I don’t give up my immediate goals to tend to my children’s immediate needs, I’m stricken with guilt and continuous guilt will drive anyone out of their minds. However, it’s just as maddening to rarely have a sense of accomplishment. Sure, if I were wise and patient, I’d see that I am accomplishing so much by raising my children. Please show me the mother who honestly feels that most of the time. I’d love to meet her.

But I suppose I haven’t been completely honest. There is another reason why mothers are slightly insane: the power of love. From the second a little life comes out of your own body, there exists a piece of you. A sample of your soul is living and breathing outside of you in your arms and it loves you. And the most amazing thing happens: at that moment you would give your life to save theirs. This little baby is nobody you’ve ever met before, no one you know yet, at that moment of birth a mother would sacrifice her life to save her baby’s. The love is overwhelming and consumes you completely and becomes the driving force behind every single thought, word, action and desire, in some way or another, for the remainder of your life, and that makes us crazy - crazy in love.

I never chose motherhood. It chose me. One of my many life’s aspirations, motherhood has been a constant as long as I have been breathing. A part of my thoughts since my earliest memories, a desire of which I was not originally conscious and ingrained in me like taking my next breath, so was raising children. I also sought to be a dancer, a college graduate, an architect, a successful business owner and a wife. Some ambitions came into fruition, others not; some I am still pursuing. Sacrifices had to be made but never did I contemplate motherhood. Sometimes the sacrifices were, and still are, small like cooking a well-balanced meal for my family, clean carpets or a daily shower. Often they are more difficult, like finding the peace to hear my own thoughts and remember who I am. The lack of sleep, lack of time to pursue friendships and the lack of energy to make-love all affect a mother’s ability to find happiness and therefore, stay sane, but nothing quite troubles the soul more than the lack of spending time with oneself.

What gives mothers the strength to continue rather than fall into a state of being permanently institutionalized? I believe it’s moments. Simple moments filled with love and meaning keep me on the brink of functioning sanity. There are moments when the love is so grand it fuels my lunacy even further. At night when I’ve tucked my son into bed, he’s shared with me in a love fest that goes something like this.

"Good night. I love you." I start.

"No, I love you." Lucas looks into my eyes, trying to see my heart.

"No, I love you."

"No, I love you more."

No, I love you more."

"I love you this much." He stretches his arms as wide as they can reach.

"I love you this much." My stretch is bigger.

"I love you all the way to the moon."

"I love you all the way past the moon, past Jupiter, into other galaxies, universes and back!"

"Wow. That’s a lot."

"It is." And these aren’t just words. Both mother and child speak from the deepest corner of our hearts.

Or there’s nights when they crawl in bed next to you with their velvety soft skin, nuzzling perfectly– okay, maybe an elbow jabbing into your side and the child’s leg is pushing against your husband’s. But nevertheless this perfect body finds ultimate comfort and security in just being next to you. Their breath is shallow and stinks perfectly and miraculously, all of your pain is forgotten until the next morning, when it’s time to do it all over again.