How to be as High on Yourself as I am: a Self-Esteem Primer

An amazing self-portrait, I know.


I drew this myself on my new tablet-mousy-thingy. They call this particular type a "Bamboo," but I honestly don't know why. It's not green or long or a renewable resource. I see no pandas attaching themselves to it. But whatever. Call it what you like, but it's fun to draw my feelings instead of just typing them all the time.

I need the kids to go back to school, like, last Thursday.

This is why I'm at work 90 minutes early today. It's not because I'm trying to get ahead on my to-do list. It's not because I was attempting to beat traffic. It's not because I'm trying to look good to my boss (my boss is my Facebook friend and follows me on Twitter - there's no way I can hide my crazy from her). It's because I get an extra 90 minutes to sit - get this - quietly and uninterrupted while I drink my coffee and write a blog post.

And, for that, you are most welcome.

Last week, I blogged about how being fat and miserable keeps us fat and miserable. And what I mean by that is simple: love your fatty self, because taking care of the body you love is a lot easier than hurting the body you hate by stupid shit like fad dieting. This post, of course, meant my inbox filled up with questions about how someone learns to love themselves as much as I love myself.

To be honest, I likely suffer from a deep-seated narcissism. So you probably don't want to love yourself quite as much as The Maven does. When you start to refer to yourself in the third person and not even question it, you know you have a problem. But I digress...

As I've explained many a time, The Maven wasn't always a big fan of The Maven. (See what I'm talking about?) I am a never-ending work in progress, much like the construction site down the road from you that never seems to produce much of anything despite all the guys standing around there each and every day. One day, they say, there will be condos there. And every once in a while you see a bit of digging, a bit of framing, and think to yourself that they better damn well put a Starbucks on the main floor to make up for all the noise you've endured.

Well, I will also have a Starbucks on my main level when I'm done, and I will make the most delicious lattes. But I'm not quite there yet. Maybe someday, but not yet. I have a lot of work to do. But here's what I do know: There are concrete things I've done - and still do - that have helped me get this far. So I'm going to share them with you, what with me being such a self-help expert and all. (Please stop laughing.)

1. Let's look at this rationally.
We have one life to live. One. (Unless you believe in reincarnation. But then you might be born a toad or or a mushroom or something, so that doesn't really count anyway.) Do you really want to waste it feeling like shit all the time? What purpose is that serving? And believe me: It is serving some kind of purpose, so you need to figure out what that is.

Are you keeping yourself down because you're afraid of taking any steps to fix it? Is it comfortable doing what you're doing, even if it's not pleasant? Do you get some kind of attention from it? (AKA, having other people feed your ego by saying "Don't say that about yourself! It's not true!" That's not self-esteem, and it's not going to make you feel better about yourself. Like a junkie, you'll always be looking for the next compliment fix. Been there, done that.) Are you afraid of succeeding? Are you afraid of becoming ridiculously arrogant if you're not meek and mild all the time?

News flash: Being ridiculously arrogant is my job, not yours. You can't have it, so you'll have to settle for feeling confident. I know that sucks, but that's how it's gonna go down.

Anyway, figure out what's keeping you down. If it's fear, work through it. If it's depression, open up and talk to someone. If it's traumatic childhood issues, watch a few episodes of Hoarders and realize that pretty much everyone has traumatic childhood issues, but we need to work on letting them go and live for today, or face a lifetime of garbage collection and dead, buried cats.

2. Get over yourself, you big, whiny baby.
Having figured out what's keeping you down, it's time to let that go. Have a good cry if you need to. Say goodbye to the pity party, eat your last self-hatred sandwich. You are not a victim today. You are awesome. You are stuffed full of amazing (and maybe that self-hatred sandwich you just ate. But don't worry, you'll digest it soon). You are capable of great things if you'll just let yourself do them.

3. Come up with something you like about yourself every day. Yes, EVERY DAY.
A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, or whatever. That sounded like a good spot to throw in a Chinese proverb (my apologies to the Chinese if this saying doesn't belong to you. It just sounds like something your wise people would say. It's a compliment, ok?).

Anyway, the thing is, we all have stuff we don't particularly like about ourselves - even me. And now I'm asking you to compliment yourself every day. But start small: if your problem is that you don't like your weight, don't look in the mirror and say "My inner thighs look great today" because you'll probably just start crying while you say it, and that just defeats the whole purpose. Likewise, if your problem is that you're missing an arm from an unfortunate zoo accident, don't say "The lion left a really nice nub at the end of my shoulder" because that will likely have the same result. You can't start with the big stuff. If you could, you'd already have good self-esteem and not need to read this stupid primer.

My issue has mostly been my weight and how ugly I thought I looked because of it. I did not start with that. I started with non-physical things I appreciate in myself. I would look in the mirror and say - out loud, like a crazy woman - "I'm a pretty good writer" or "I'm very involved in my kids' lives and that makes me a good mom" or "I can arrange a beautiful wild flower bouquet." Anything at all that is positive about me. One thing each day, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. No exceptions. 

Why do I do this? Because I'm slowly building up my army of good to defend against the army of darkness (not the movie) that is occupying my head. Every time I plant a positive thought in my brain, it's like planting one troop in a hot zone. Every day the army grows. If it helps you to envision some yummy, sweaty, young infantry guy, go for it. I won't judge. Just do it.

4. Now come up with something harder you like about yourself - every day.
This step comes when you're ready. Step 3 can be done for a very long time or a very short time before implementing step 4. You'll know when it's time. You'll know because you'll test the waters by saying something like "I have very beautiful eyes" and you won't burst into fits of laughter or roll those very beautiful eyes after you say it. You'll believe it. 

Since physical appearance has been my Achilles heel when it comes to self-esteem, being able to slip in some compliments about the way I look was a good indicator that my army of light was growing in numbers. It took me a long time to really like my hair (I know, right? As if! I have great hair.) It took me a long time to like my smile. It took a very, very long time to be able to tell myself I looked pretty in what I was wearing, or to find myself worthy of - and rather stunning in - a beautiful dress in a size 18.

But I got there, slowly.

If you're frustrated by how long it takes to get good at step 4, just remember: At least you're making progress, which is a hell of a lot better than when you were crying into a bag of Oreos before step 1. Progress, not perfection. Baby steps. Enjoy the process, because, when you think about it, we never really reach a destination. We just travel more happily, and the scenery gets a lot nicer.

5. Beat negativity to death with a stick.
Steps 3, 4 and 5 can and should be done daily - when you get there. The thing about our society is that it thrives on negativity. We're fed all these messages every day through the media that we're not good enough unless we look a certain way, reach a certain income level, and own certain things. We're expected to be fountains of youth with fat bank accounts and huge, eerily white smiles plastered on our faces. That's how selling stuff works. Marketing 101; I didn't even have to get a degree to understand that basic concept.

The army of darkness (not the movie) will always be present and waiting for your forces to weaken. You need to replenish your troops regularly with compliments and recognition, surround yourself with positive, loving people, and shun the negative.  It is so easy to pick ourselves apart when we're bombarded with messages telling us to do exactly that. Make your world as safe and healthy as possible.

Despite my best efforts, I find that I sometimes still put myself down. I might have had a bad day, or I'm hormonal, or there's another area of my life not going the way I wish it would and I'm in full-on attack mode on myself. The difference is that I recognize when it's happening now and I fight back against it. If I think to myself "Look at those fat rolls. I'm digusting!" I quickly follow that up with "Maven. you've had a bad day, but you're still beautiful no matter what size you are. Don't be so hard on yourself. It's going to be okay." Blammo! Troops are parachuting into enemy territory. It really works - especially if you do this regularly.

And if you're struggling, just come on down and sit in my Starbucks for a bit. I'll make you a latte and tell you how awesome you are. Promise.

The Cake of Hate

Photo Credit: http://comesitbymyfire.blogspot.com/
In case you've been living under a rock for the last ten days, you probably figured out that I epically failed at the whole NaBloPoMo thing. This whole "one blog post every day for a month" is not meant for me at this time in my life. I am far too busy in my role as mayor of Very Important Personville (population: 1). I just finished a sizeable contract, have another one on the horizon, and another-other one on its way. Then there are my feisty little gremlins, of course, and a house that looks more like an episode of Hoarders than anything on HGTV.

If I manage to put together two posts a week, I will throw myself a damn parade.

I could beat myself up about not meeting this lofty goal I set, but frankly I've been my own best punching bag enough lately. There's no need to add more icing on the cake of hate.

Or "hate cake". Both are kind of catchy, really.

It's ironic that my last blog post had to do with self-esteem, ego and all that, because I've fallen so far down the slippery slope of self-love that I'm scrambling to fasten enough vines together to pull myself back up. I'm not a big fan of Me right now. "And why is that?" you ask with a fair bit of bewilderment. Well, I'm glad you asked. I worked through a lot of it today, I think. But first I really need to paint a picture of this less-than-fabulous Monday morning.

I woke up at 5:30 a.m. to both the cat meowing and Spawnling calling me from upstairs. Spawnling came into our bed and the cat stopped her noisemaking, so I went back to sleep.

That is, until Spawn peed the bed - our bed - and I had to take care of that. I then fell back asleep and woke up at 7:15 - a full 45 minutes after my alarm is supposed to go off. This is because Geekster set the alarm for 7:30 a.m on Saturday so he could wake up for Tae Kwon Do and never set it back to 6:30. I never checked the alarm before bed, so... yeah. Oops. It's a good thing my internal clock woke up me, or we would have been far more pressed for time.

It's Monday, and we have now woken up late. Oh, and my cat is eating a mouse on the kitchen floor. Fabulous.

Gutsy had a tummy ache last night which persisted into this morning, so we kept him home. One gremlin home on a would-be childless Monday isn't the end of the world, but certainly not what I had planned for my first actual day off in days (I've been a busy worker bee the last couple of weeks - especially on gremlin-free days).

So now it's Monday, we woke up late, there's half a mouse on my floor, and a sick child home.

And just when I think the day can't possibly get any more fan-freaking-tastic, I remember that I have a doctor's appointment. A pap test, even. And my doc's office is a thirty minute drive.

And guess what? It's fucking snowing. Like, a lot.

That was the start of my Monday. Add to this that I'm feeling ridiculously small and insecure lately, and I just knew that if I didn't do something, I was going to take a day trip into my Dark Place. I don't go there very often, but when I do it's not exactly a fun excursion.  It's all rainclouds and misery and heaping servings of self-pity. Considering I'm The Maven and do everything big and impressive, you can only imagine how impressive my Dark Place is. (It got a five-star rating in last year's Depressive Traveller's Guide.)

I'm a woman of action. These things need to be nipped in the bud quickly so they don't fester. I decided the best thing to do was to get some therapy. So I emailed a friend of mine and offered her coffee in exchange for her couch and wise words. She wrote back right away with an invitation to come by, and I truly believe that turned my entire day around. I told her everything that's been bothering me lately - baring my soul in a way everyone has to do from time to time. She did all those things a good therapist does, like nodding and empathizing and interjecting with some sound advice from time to time. And, in the end, we both agreed that I'm running predominantly on fear these days. Not exactly healthy.

All three of my children have had a hard time with transitions. Switching gears is a challenge for them. Time for dinner = tears at giving up playing trains. Time for bed = tantrum over turning off the t.v. I used to blame the sugar (my favourite scapegoat), but I'm kind of seeing a genetic connection right now - although I'll deny it if anyone asks me.

I'm in this high point of transition in my life. The kids are getting older, I'm going back to work part-time,  There are big, healthy lifestyle changes going on. I'm no longer who I was just a few months ago.  She was amazing, but this new woman emerging is going to shine even brighter. Like my friend said to me this morning, I just have to go through the process of shedding my old skin first, and that can be uncomfortable. I'm going to have doubts, I'm going to have worries, I'm going to have that little voice in my head telling me that I'm not good enough, not strong enough, not awesome enough. I'm going to need reassurance from those close to me. But, more importantly, I'm going to have to learn to reassure myself that everything is okay; that I'm going to be okay; that I am The Maven and I totally rock - even during my weaker moments.

I mean, who else can have an impromptu therapy session for the cost of a coffee? Major score.

I left her place and drove through the snow, belting out tunes and enjoying the scenery. I walked into the doctor's office smiling, and she said she wished everyone was that happy about getting a pap test.

Now I'm home, blogging for the first time in days, and feeling a little bit lighter. Things are going to be okay as soon as I get this skin off.  Anyone have a good exfoliator?

Self-Esteem

SELF-ESTEEM noun


confidence in one's own worth or abilities ; self-respect ; 
Some days, The Maven's self-esteem could use a giant coffee.

Yesterday, a friend of mine mentioned a recent US study that showed women with self-esteem issues tend to post more pictures of themselves online.

Why did she tell me this? She suggested that I take, well, a few too many pictures of myself.

Me, The Maven. Humble, quiet, mild-mannered me. Can you believe it? Well, I have...


NO


IDEA


WHAT


SHE'S


TALKING


ABOUT.

The girl is clearly delusional.

All kidding aside, she's right. I take way too many pictures of myself, and I do have self-worth issues. I will be the first to admit that I, like 99% of women out there, do struggle with my confidence levels. It's not that I think I'm hideous, it's just that I've spent a fair bit of my life trying to convince myself that I'm at least kind of pretty. Years of bullying and weight issues will do that to you. And I take lots of pictures so that I can hopefully capture the one that will make me think "Why, I believe I might have been wrong all these years. I'm not that bad looking after all!"

Despite all the brokenness mentioned above, I do surprisingly have a bit of self-esteem. I really do. You might have to squint to see it, but it's there. It precariously balances next to my ego, and they go back and forth in this tug-of-war for ultimate control.

My ego is like a big, bright bouncy castle that you'll see at any community fair. It screams "HEY! LOOK AT ME! OVER HERE!" and wants you very much to pay attention to it. When you do, it's thrilled. It gets even bigger and brighter and shinier.

But when you don't - because, say, you have your own life and you're too busy to really pay it the attention it wants - it's quick to deflate, pack up and go home, defeated. Obviously you don't care. You don't love me. You won't pay attention to me. I'm temporarily devastated.

Self-esteem is different; it's not based on how many people jump up and down excitedly on me (uh...). It doesn't care if you don't think it's pretty or smart or talented. It sits just behind the bouncy castle, slowly building itself up, brick by brick. It's taken years - and a copious amount of therapy - to create the foundation. You can't see it until that big annoying castle deflates, but it's there. It's smaller, less obvious - and far more solid. It will never puncture, it will never waiver. It's there for the long haul.

As much as I talk about the excitement of going back to work, I truly believe being a full-time stay-at-home-mom has taught me a lot about self-esteem. When there are no accolades, no pretty clothes, no reasons to put on makeup, no pay cheques rolling in; when there are only demanding kids, dirty dishes, runny noses and scribbled-on walls all day, every day - the only way to feel good about yourself is to feel good about yourself.


Yourself. You.

Because if you don't feel good about who you are, you're going to get depressed and lonely and feel worthless. It's so easy to fall into that as a stay-at-home-parent. There has to come a point where you stop looking elsewhere for who you are and find it within yourself, no matter where you are. That's self-esteem.

I definitely have some confidence issues, and my self-esteem foundation may be small, but I have one. Realizing that I need to be my biggest cheerleader is what made that little miracle happen.

But no, you won't see me taking any pictures in a squad uniform. Are you kidding? I don't have a self-esteem warehouse, people. It's, like, a shack, plastered with pictures of myself for you to compliment me on.

What's bigger in your world? The foundation or the bouncy castle? And how did you get there?

Top 10 Reasons I Only Sort of Suck at Parenting


The post I wrote a earlier this week regarding the extreme suckage of my personal struggles was met with incredible support and positivity. Thank you.

Truly, I've come to expect no less from you, my dear friends and blog sheeple, and it's your own damn fault: You have set the bar so high for yourselves that you'll need an oxygen tank to breathe up there. You have let it be known many times that you are kind and caring folk. In fact, reading supportive posts from you is, I imagine, a lot like taking a stroll through The Shire. All those friendly little Hobbits, smiling at you, waving, offering you root vegetables from their gardens.

Come to think of it, I don't think a single one of you has ever given me a root vegetable.

Well, there's something to strive for next time, eh? Make a note:

Next time Maven is down, give virtual hug and send box of turnips.


Anyway, in order to prove to everyone that I am not completely down on my parenting despite last week's epic blow-up at Gutsy, I have created a list of pretty good examples, showing how I do not entirely suck as a mom. I'm going to call it something original, like Pretty Good Examples Of How I Do Not Entirely Suck As A Mom, or PGEOHIDNESAAM for short.

With such a catchy little name, it's sure to go viral in no time!

Pretty Good Examples Of How I Do Not Entirely Suck As A Mom:

1. My children are still breathing. (Very important, but often downplayed)

2. My children do not eat a lot of vegetables, but enough of them that they don't have the scurrrrvy. (Said with a pirate accent for added flair)

3. Sometimes, when my boys are fighting, I actually care about what the fight is about and not just about how quickly I can help them resolve it, as I missed what just Oprah asked crazy Sarah Palin, and it's not like I have a PVR or anything, and ... Oh, sorry. Why are you yelling about again?

4. When I buy junk food, I don't always share it with my children. Sometimes I hide it until they go to bed, so as to not damage their delicate hearts before they even hit the college years. It's one of the many sacrifices I make as a parent.

5. I do not always use t.v. as a babysitter. Sometimes, I use video games.

6. I make lunches in the morning, blurry-eyed and rushed, not because I'm too lazy and selfish the night before to fulfill even one more parental responsibility, but because it's fresher. Yeah... Fresher.

7. Sometimes, I introduce my kids to a lame 80's movie not only because I get to selfishly relive my childhood through their eyes, but also because maybe they'll actually like it. I'm nice like that.

8. I might occasionally pay Intrepid to babysit by buying him a bag of chips, but that's because he likes chips, ok? What does a thirteen-year-old need money for? He's just going to buy junk food with it anyway. I'm saving him the trouble.

9. Speaking of food, nearly all our dinners include at least one vegetable. Sometimes the vegetable is called "tomato sauce out of a jar," and Gutsy won't eat it, but whatever. Does Gutsy have the scurrrrvy? No. So bugger off and quit judging.

10. I can name at least four or five times in the last thirteen years when I've gone to a Tim Hortons with the sole purpose of getting something for the kids. And I was only pregnant and grossed out by coffee maybe two or three of those times. One day, they shall canonize me: Mary Maven, Saint of Not-Always-Selfish Drive-Thru Visits.

I think I've proved my point; I am beautifully imperfect in every way, but especially when it comes to raising the next generation of Mavens. You may celebrate my mediocrity by erecting a statue in my honour. I will come to the unveiling, but only if coffee is being served. Oh, and donuts. You know, for my kids.

Saintly, I tell you.

Moms are Beautiful. Now Buy Me a Coffee.


This is my new Facebook profile picture. I took it today, ignoring the mountains of laundry and dishes that need doing. I can do those any time. Cute wisps of hair only fall on one's face every so often, and prompt picture taking must immediately follow.

I don't love this picture. It's alright, but I had to change some lighting so the grey roots wouldn't show, and my lips would look like I actually applied some tint, and my hair would be the deeper red I love after I visit to the salon. Colour saturation levels can do wonders.

I got an email from a friend who saw the picture, and we started talking about how cruel women are to themselves, especially after our bodies get stretched and changed dramatically from having a child or three. We look at the young childless women with envy, admiring their curves and small waistlines and a complexion one can only achieve with regular sleep. We talk about how much thinner we used to be, how our breasts were perkier, our tummies flatter, our butts less jiggly. We discuss diets and gym memberships and how we would hate Miss So-and-so, that scrawny little bitch, if she wasn't so damn nice all the time. But have you ever seen her eat a carb? I don't think I have. Wait, maybe a mini-muffin at playgroup, but then she went to the bathroom right away. Hmm...

We're awful to our womanly selves. We hold ourselves up to standards that are unreasonable biologically, physically and emotionally. We can't possibly do what we do in any given day and constantly work on achieving Hollywood's ideal. Can we be healthy? Should we be healthy? Absolutely. But 'healthy' does not always mean rake thin, nor does it mean working out three hours a day at the gym, or eating nothing but spinach and almond salad (but if you throw some cranberries in there and top it with a vinaigrette it's rather lovely. But not all the time. Balance, people. Balance. Did you not read yesterday's post?)

I used to really hate my body. I hated every roll, every dimple, every blemish and every stretch mark. I wouldn't have sex with a single light on and I would go awkwardly stiff if he put a hand on my naked belly. I would change outfits six times until I found one that hid my middle like a tent, attempting to somehow conceal the not-so-subtle fact that I'm overweight.

I cried about it. I worked out so hard I would exhaust myself. I went on this diet and that diet and binged and cried about that and then tried a new diet and a new exercise program and berated myself for putting weight back on...

And one day I had enough. I just

Fucking.

Had.

Enough.

And I said it to myself just like that. I said "I have fucking had enough of hating myself."And I promised myself I wouldn't do it anymore. There had to be a better way to live. There had to be something more to live than wasting it away agonizing over how disappointed I was in my appearance.

It was like a light switch came on. Instead of staring at the disgusting blob I thought motherhood had turned me into, I was suddenly able to look deeper; I saw that, while I had been blatantly transformed by childbearing, my perspective had been completely wrong. Society's perspective was wrong. How could I not have seen it before?

And just like that, I realized how beautiful I had become.

I saw that my body had grown three children, and my belly had stretched to accommodate them. My incredible body had done an incredible thing.

I saw that three babies had been born from my body, and that my belly had two surgical lines which, like tattoos, immortalized their arrivals. (Incidentally, I would not recommend a cesarean just so you can have a cool pink tattoo like me. I know you want to be like me, and that's perfectly understandable, but it is major surgery. I would have gladly welcomed all three out my hooha and paid actual cash for a belly tattoo. Less pain, fewer complications, no staples. You know?)

I saw that my breasts had changed in order to feed my babies, and that they had done a great job. They made milk for a combined total of seven years, and I'm very proud of that.

My curves, my laugh lines, the wisdom that comes with grey hair: Those are all badges of honour that I can wear proudly.

...Alright, except the grey hair. I love it on other people, but I'm not quite loving it on me just yet. I'm thirty-three; can't I rock the red a little longer?

Do I still look at the pretty little things with a sense of nostalgia? Only a little. They may have something I no longer have, but I have something they can't possibly imagine: sixteen years with the man of my dreams and three incredible children who show me a love I wouldn't trade for all the cellulite-free thighs in the world.

I want to hug any mother who doesn't like the way she looks. I want to tell her not to starve herself, or work herself to the bone, or listen to her husband's disparaging comments about how she doesn't look like the woman he married. I want to throw out her fat-free, aspartame-injected yogurt and buy her some whole, healthy food that tastes good and brings a smile to her face. I want to bring her into a field with a bat and trash her scale - Office Space style - and have her take up exercise she loves instead of the one that burns the most calories.

I want to tell her what I've realized, being all wise like I am: That true beauty is within her, real and living, right now. She doesn't have to create it because it's already there. It's been there all along, but it's morphed into something so much better than it used to be. I think it's what makes a mother more stunning as the years go by. Time spreads her beauty outward to create a family, and inward to beautify her soul.

Love yourself right now for you who are and what you do. And while you're at it, love me. Especially me, but at least 40% you. And then we can celebrate! You can buy me a coffee. I'm a cheap therapist.