It’s Mothers Day, and I plan to sleep in. I will get out of bed at my leisure, savor a cup of coffee, read the paper cover to cover, and thank heaven I am no longer a young mom.

I was 25 years old when I had my first child. Until that moment – 9:37 p.m. on Sept. 15, 1981 – I was a reasonable, confident and passably intelligent woman. At 9:38 p.m., all bets were off.

Remember that scene in the five-hanky classic “Terms of Endearment” when a young Aurora Greenway, played by Shirley MacLaine, climbs into her newborn daughter’s crib, waking the infant out of a sound sleep, just to make sure she’s still breathing?

That was me.

As an inexperienced first-time mother, I took parental angst to new heights.

I would spring out of bed and sprint to the nursery every time there was the slightest gurgle on the baby monitor.

Once, I phoned the doctor in a panic because my 3-month-old slept through the night for the first time and I was SURE something was horribly wrong.

Overly concerned about my baby’s inability to nap, I actually tape-recorded the noise of the vacuum cleaner for a solid hour because that was the only sound that could lull my son to sleep.

It was exhausting, I tell you.

The drama continued into my children’s middle years, when maternal love trumped logic on a near-daily basis.

There was the time I stood for a half-hour outside the door, straining to hear the slightest sign of distress, even though my toddler had happily padded off to play with his new friends on the first day of preschool.

Or the day I bolted, without hesitation, into oncoming traffic to rescue my daughter’s favorite toy dropped from an open car window.

How about all those Saturdays driving at breakneck speed, ignoring traffic signs and risking my “preferred driver” status, just to make it to a soccer match on time?

And let’s not forget venturing out to the video store in a raging blizzard to rent a copy of “To Kill a Mockingbird” because SOMEBODY didn’t get the book read in time for the big English test.

Not only was it draining, it was downright dangerous!

At times, early motherhood transformed me from an honest, decent person into a woman of questionable character. The shame still haunts me today.

I once fibbed to a principal that my child was sick, when in truth she was just suffering from post-traumatic bad haircut syndrome.

When confronted by my own son as to why he didn’t find money under his pillow, I explained, without missing a beat, that “the Tooth Fairy is getting older and sometimes she forgets to come and get everyone’s teeth, but surely she will remember tonight and pay you double the usual rate!”

In my secret fantasies, I took delight in planning the slow, painful and untimely death of the school bully who was making life miserable for my precious seventh-grader.

I was certifiable.

And that was NOTHING compared to the nerve-frazzling, gut-wrenching teenage years, the events of which I can’t even recall without my ulcer flaring up.

Now, thankfully, the kids are grown, and all that energy-depleting, ego-deflating anxiety has vanished into thin air. The years have brought me perspective and a new sense of calm. Life is good.

Oh sure, I still sleep with the phone next to my bed, just in case one of them needs bail money.

And when they travel, I insist they “call when you get there” and from every rest stop along the route.

And, OK, I do tend to start every phone conversation with “What’s the matter? Are you all right?”

But the extreme, over-the-top, “moms gone wild” behavior is gone, filed away with all the bad school photos, locks of hair and old art projects. The Aurora Greenway in me is but a faded memory.

At least until the grandkids arrive.