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.

Evan's Ice Cream Shoppe

Eirik and I have big dreams for our kids someday. We don't care if they're doctors or lawyers, but we would love them to be entrepreneurs!

I took the kids to the park the other day. There is a bench with a window. Evan sat on the bench and decided he would open up his own business called, "Evan's Ice Cream Shoppe." He told his little brother Eithan that he was supposed to get the customers. Three-year-old Eithan went around to all of the kids at the park and said, "You've got to get some ice cream at Evan's Ice Cream Shoppe."
Evan then told the kids that the ice cream was $10 each. That's my boy, way to put a premium on your product! When Eithan tried to help sell ice cream, Evan said, "No, Eithan. You get the customers!" When it was time to go, Evan found a girl to "work" at the shoppe. "I've got a helper, we can go now," he said.

I had to immediately call Eirik. I knew he would be so proud of his boys. As parents, we thought about Evan running the operations and Eithan in charge of sales with a real business of their own someday. We can only hope that they are entrepreneurial-minded and never rely on someone else's business for their livelihood.

Das Pukenshit Haus

There are many days in my life since becoming a mom that I felt like I was living in Das Pukenshit Haus. Today was one of those days! My mom babysat last night and slept over. It was a wonderful Sunday morning, and a rare day where I got to sleep in late as Nana got up with the baby. I lazily strolled downstairs to learn that the baby had diarrhea and she was giving her a bottle of water. Whew, I got out of this one! That is until six hours later when I found the diarrhea diaper still sitting on the changing table, breathing in the open air. Gotta love that smell! Then I noticed my cat, who has a strange fixation with eating balloon strings, had regurgitated it and was eating the leftovers as a snack! Top that off with my three-year-old, who seems to have forgotten show to do number two on the potty. The evening ended with his second bath of the day, thankfully from his very wonderful dad, who did his best to remove the poop that was all over his third change of clothes. Yes, it's glamorous being the Supermom in Das Pukenshit Haus!