Paying it Forward

After I got over my postpartum anxiety crisis, the first thing I wanted to do was bury it far, far in the back of my mind. I wanted to pretend that PPD never happened to me; like it was just another mother's bad dream. That would have been the easier thing to do.

However, after I recovered from PPD, I knew my life had changed forever. I had a new sense of appreciation for my health and my family. I also knew that there were so many women out there that were searching for a light of hope.

When I was sick, all I wanted to find was someone else who understood me. It is impossible to explain mental illness to those who have never experienced it. After all, how can you be sick inside when you look fine on the outside.

That's when I decided to 'Pay it Forward'. If I am able to help other mother's out there, and even rock the boat a little bit when it comes to postnatal care, then maybe what I went through was meant to be.

I am here today and I am fine. I've emerged from hell and back, and so can other PPD mom's. It takes a lot of faith, strength and perseverance to overcome such a horrific obstacle that's put in a new mom's way, but it can be done.

People ask me if my life is the same as before PPD. It's not the same, nor will it ever be. I am so much more in tuned with my emotions than ever before. I am also a lot better about prioritizing the things that matter the most in my life. And finally, I'm a much more empathetic person than I used to be.

Material things used to be really important to me. I wanted a perfect house, a nice car, great clothes. Now I'd rather sacrifice the high-paying corporate job that would allow me those luxuries if it means more time with my family and spreading the word about PPD awareness. To me, those are the true luxuries in life.

Stacey Ackerman is the Author of Supermom: A Postpartum Anxiety Survival Story. She can be reached at stacey@supermombook.org.

Embracing Halloween

This year, I embraced Halloween with open arms. I am not afraid of this spooky holiday any more. I was finally able to truly feel joy in this celebration and it has become a special day for our family.

Two years ago things were very different. I was in the midst of a postpartum crisis, locked away in a hospital psych ward. I can remember looking out of the window in the hospital gathering room and longing to be with my children, who were looking forward to trick or treating that evening. I cried uncontrollably, because the separation and pain I felt at that moment was too unbearable.

That night it became public information about where I had gone. In fact, my neighbors hadn't even noticed I had been missing for a week, but found it strange that I was no where in sight when my husband took the kids out for Halloween without me.

This was my first step in being honest with my situation. Even though it felt shameful to share our family crisis, it was out there.

Last year Halloween was really difficult. I was still experiencing a lot of post-traumatic stress disorder and the day triggered a lot of that trauma. I treaded lightly last Halloween. This year I embraced it fully.

For years from now, Halloween will be a family affair. As long as we are all together, it's alright by me.

Stacey Ackerman is the author of Supermom: A Postpartum Anxiety Survival Story and lives in Lakeville, Minn., with her husband Eirik and children Evan, Eithan and Emily.

Anxiety and Asthma

The two A's - anxiety and asthma are kicking my ass this week. The two definitely don't mix. It's really and oil and vinegar kind of combo.

Last winter, unbeknownst to me, I suddenly developed asthma. I found myself in the place that gives me the worst panic attacks ever - the hospital.

As I sat in the emergency room bed, all I could think of was being locked up in the psych ward. I suddenly wanted to flee. I did not want to be admitted to the hospital under any circumstances. My heart was racing, and my already labored breathing got worse. I was trembling and sweating with fear. Even though it was a totally different circumstance from my ppd hell, it felt all too familiar.

Now my asthma attacks have returned, followed by its friend anxiety. I ran a 5k this summer. Now I can't even climb my stairs without feeling like I'm going to keel over. I want to kick this crap - I'm a busy working mom of three and I don't have time to be knocked on my ass.

Then comes my friend anxiety trailing behind. It is wondering why the prednisone, flovent, allergy pills and albuterol nebs every four hours are not helping. It is feeding on my fear - will I be back in the hospital again? Then I wonder if it's just my imagination. Is it post-traumatic stress disorder, or am I physically ill? When I had ppd, I couldn't tell the difference.

I ask my hubby over and over for validation. "Do I seem any better to you?" I ask. "No, you seem about the same," he replies.

Nope, it's real. It's not my messed up head this time, though my head keeps taking me to places that I don't want to go.

Tomorrow I am seeing my asthma specialist. For today, I hope to kick these A's in the ass!

Psych Ward Rememberence

Today is October 25. No, it's not my birthday. It's not even anyone in my family's birthday. Today marks the two year anniversary of the day I committed myself to the psych ward.

It's the place I still fear through night terrors, a result of post-traumatic stress disorder. It is the place I think about every morning when I take my Lexapro, or when I see my daughter's smiling face. It is haunting, yet it is healing.

It is shameful to admit I was there, yet it is powerful to tell people I was there. And I'm better now. And I'm not a crazed lunatic, nor was I ever. I am a strong woman, and I was strong enough to face the stigma behind the psych ward and get the help I needed.

To commemorate this anniversary, here is an excerpt from my book Supermom explaining what happened two years ago today:

I will never forget the day I went to the hospital. It was Emily's one-month birthday and I wasn't sure if I'd ever be the same again.

When they finally brought me back to the evaluation area, this was like no part of the hospital I had ever seen. It seemed like I was visiting a high-security prison.

Suddenly I felt like I had done something wrong. I felt like a criminal and was afraid the authorities were going to lock me away for trying to poison my son. I was paranoid of everyone and everything around me. But I wanted help--whatever it took.

Body Art

Body art is kind of cool. On adults that is. Body art is not so cool when your two pre-school age boys decide to create Picasso-style art on each others' bodies. And I do mean every square inch of their bodies. Yes, even their "junk" was colored in marker.

I should have known better when I asked them to go downstairs and clean the basement and then I heard it - silence. The kind of silence that happens when they are up to no good. But instead of trusting my instincts that mayhem may be going on downstairs, I took the opportunity to have a shower in peace. A whole 10 minutes to myself.

My oldest son Evan was so proud of his creativity, that he came up the stairs and said, "Mom, you've got to see Eithan. He looks so tough!"

I think he was shocked by my reaction of absolute horror when my then three-year-old walked up stark naked and covered in marker shades of red, blue, purple, green, and orange. Evan actually thought he was doing something nice to his little bro.

Then came up baby Em, then one, with her bare feet covered in every color of the rainbow. Horror. All I could think about was how horrified I was. What a bad mother I was for leaving my little darlings unsupervised. But I really needed a shower!

Now don't get me wrong, I love art work and creativity, but this is where I draw the line!

Yes, it was washable marker, but in case your kids ever try this at home, red does not wash off for at least three days! My kids looked like they had streaks of blood running down their bodies.

Punching Out

Welcome to the re-launch of my blog! Yes, I started a few posts last year, but you know, life gets busy. Anyway, I'm taking another stab at it and I hope you'll join me for the journey.

If you're a mom like me, whether it's to one kid or to 12, it's a tough job. And unlike any other job, there is no "lunch hour", "break" or "time to clock out". And forget vacation days and sick days, moms don't get those either.

I remember one night when my boys, 4 and 6, who share a room, would not go to bed. It had been a long day and I was exhausted. Apparently my husband was too, because when I asked him to go check on them, his response was, "It's 8 o'clock and I'm off the clock."

Really, off the clock? Can parents do that? My husband thinks he can. When the clock turns eight, parenting is done.

He's a stellar dad, don't get me wrong. He takes the kids to the park, on hikes and watches them when I work. He really is one-of-a-kind when it comes to being hands-on. That is, until 8 o'clock.

One night I came home around 10 p.m. to find my husband downstairs on the treadmill and my boys running around like monkeys on the loose upstairs.

"What's going on up there?" I asked the hubs. "I don't know. It's past 8 o'clock," he replied.

Now, what if moms were to take on this same philosophy? I guess the kids would eventually go to sleep. Or would they?

I think the rules are different for moms. We're always on the clock. When the kids are barfing at 3 a.m., we're there cleaning it up. We don't have time to be sick. Someone's got to keep the household from falling apart.

But maybe we should try "punching out" at 8 o'clock. Maybe we need a break. A glass of Riesling and a little cookie dough. Perhaps I'll give it a try.

Mommy Jail

Have I scarred my kids for life by showing them jail or did I teach them a really great lesson?

It all started one day when I put Evan in "mommy jail". As summer was dwindling, so was my 5-year-old's attitude and my patience with him. I think someone took my sweet, innocent little boy and replaced him with a smart-mouthed hellion. He could give any parent of a teenager a run for their money! I hate to see what he'll be like as a teen if he keeps up this attitude.

So one night when my husband and I were running out of discipline strategies, we watched Supernanny together and took copious notes.

The next day when Evan lipped off to me, I followed Supernanny's directions to a T. Step one: warning; Step two: time out; Step three: get down to the child's level and discuss their behavior.

After about 10 tries at this methodology, Evan continued to mock the timeout process. After keeping my cool for so long, I finally lost it and said, "Go to your room, you're not getting dinner, you're going straight to bed!" I felt bad about the no dinner, so I brought him a tray of carrots and a cheese sandwich and said, "See, this is how people in jail eat. You're in jail for being naughty."

Evan has always been smarter than his years and said to me, "Mom, you can't put me in jail, that's what the police do." I was determined to win this battle so I told him, "You're in mommy jail." I then went on to explain that I didn't want him to grow up to be a bad guy and that little boys that don't listen to their parents often end up in jail.

Apparently this message stuck, perhaps a little too well. That night he cried to his daddy, "I don't want to grow up to be a bad guy."

A few days later, the sassing started again. I really think he's just bored and needs to start school, but nonetheless I can't stand it. We were on the way to take a bike ride around the lake when I turned around the mommy van and said, "Let's go visit jail."

There was a look of horror on Evan's face like I'd never seen before. "No mommy, I don't want to go to jail!" You aren't going to jail, I explained, "We're just going to visit some guys that didn't listen to their mommies when they were little and they made some bad choices. I don't want you to ever go to jail."

Perhaps I took this jail thing a little too far. But mind you, this jail is like the Sofitel of jails. It was built two years ago and resides next to a giant Lifetime Fitness and some huge new houses. Hey, if I had to go to jail, this one definitely wouldn't suck. Besides, it isn't exactly a high security prison. More like the place that you go if you have too many speeding tickets.

I called my mom and asked her if taking my boys to visit jail was wrong. She said, "What a great idea!" Then it hit me. I've started mothering like my mother. This is exactly the kind of crazy thing that she would do, and now I've done it too!

So is he scarred for life or cured of his disrespectful behavior? I guess only time will tell.