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?

Attitude

ATTITUDE noun


A settled way of thinking or feeling about something.
If attitude came in sandbags, Spawnling would have enough to stop a category 5 hurricane.

I do not have meek nor mild children. They did not come softly into the night, but instead had me labouring a combined 89 hours, and weighed a combined total of 30lbs 12oz at birth (that's over 10lbs each, in case you didn't know). They nursed like fiends, wailed fiercely, and had no issues letting us know what they needed from us. You might say they have a fair bit of attitude.

As their mother, I would put it more delicately, and say they are somewhat tact-impaired.

When I brought Spawnling to his first well-baby checkup, the doctor - a mother to four - told me that, as third in line, my innocent little baby would likely be very easy going until he wanted something, and then would proclaim it loudly, without apology. I thought this was an unfair generalization. And I, Queen Know-It-All of Everythingland, smiled politely and brushed her off as I cradled my sweet little bundle of perfection.

If you've read my blog over the last four years, you know how quickly I was dethroned. Our doctor was absolutely right: Spawnling is chock full of attitude differently-abled tact-impairement whenever things aren't exactly the way he wants them. He's a diva without a tiara; I should probably see if I can find my old crown somewhere. It would suit him.

With my recent discovery that I'm gluten intolerant, I've been paying much closer attention to the gremlins' diets. These things have a genetic disposition, and so it's quite possible that at least one of them will meet the same fate as I at some point in his lifetime. My gut instinct tells me that Spawnling is also gluten intolerant or has celiac disease. At first I wasn't sure, but as he goes through periods of next to no gluten followed by normal quantities of it, the symptoms are becoming grossly apparent: tummy aches, bowel issues, runny nose, high anxiety, and he's quick to anger. Several of his teeth decayed two years ago with no apparent cause, which can be another big sign of celiac disease. Finally, he was hit with the unexplained and rare Kawasaki Disease in 2009, which is an autoimmune disease. Having poured through medical journals, I've learned that autoimmune diseases/disorders tend to run in tandem - meaning that there is often more than one present. These two particular diseases are linked, so there's very good reason to believe my hunch is correct.

I'm so damn smart - and far too well informed.

We see the doctor for checkups on Thursday, and I'm going to bring up to her that I'd like all three boys screened for celiac. Once the blood is drawn, I'm going to take Spawnling off gluten. If the blood test comes back positive, I'm going to consider that a firm diagnosis. Normally a biopsy of the small intestine is necessary to confirm, but with my issues I don't think we'd need it; genetics are powerful. Even if the test is negative for celiac, he can still be gluten intolerant, so we're going to do a good year gluten-free and see how he is physically and mentally after that. I know that six months has done me a world of good already.

Still, I don't think this is going to eliminate his attitude altogether. Spawn is a lion, not a lamb. That isn't going to change, nor would we want it to. With his attitude comes an amazing humour (no idea where he'd get that combination from). A couple of days ago, after seeing the movie Megamind, he asked me to quote a line. Like any good mom, I grabbed my camera:

Nope. We have no desire to change a damn thing. Like his mother, Spawnling is a beacon of awesome shining over a sea of mediocrity. Like I said, genetics are powerful.

Suspension (with pics)

SUSPENSION noun


the act of hanging: the state of being hung : the means by which something is suspended
In Casa Maven, reality enjoys permanent suspension.

Spawnling walked up to where I was escaping my noisy reality chatting on Facebook this evening and pulled up a chair. He looked at me seriously for a moment and waited until my eyes apprehensively left my laptop's screen and rested on his. I could tell this was important.

"Mom," he declared, "I think I've figured out how Gutsy caught The Angers."

The Angers, in case my readers are not aware, is a disease coined by my youngest gremlin. Spawnling insists it's infectious.  Every time he and Gutsy get in an argument (which, at the moment, is about 75% Spawnling-induced) he accuses his big brother of having The Angers. This, of course, leads to loads of laughter from Gutsy and anyone else around, which makes Spawnling catch his own ailment and stomp out of the room yelling, "Stupid head!" or some such.

My four-year-old hatchling has never elaborated on exactly how people catch The Angers, so I turned my chair toward his and asked for his theory. This is what he told me, word for word:

"Remember a long time ago when Gutsy had that ice cap? Well, maybe it went into his body and created a second heart that is full of angry faces, and they created a power source that shooted a bunch of angers out that included a bunch of angry sources that went all over his body. So, he got The Angers."

Well, that makes perfect sense.

And yes, it did take everything I had not to:

• Laugh hysterically
• Look at my screen while I quickly typed out everything he told me so I wouldn't forget it (thankfully I'm quite good at typing without looking - years of being a geek have served me well)
• Compliment him on his ever-expanding vocabulary
• Correct his poorly conjugated verb (the inner editor cringed a little)

Four-year-olds are so cool. I was commiserating with another mom this morning as we walked our preschoolers to class. We both agreed that if we could bottle up their innocence, humour, and imagination at this age, we could live happily ever after. Suspending our tedious adult lives for a little while and enjoying the beauty of a young child's world is what having kids is all about.

Well, that and cleaning up puke in the middle of the night at least three times a year, but I digress.

I downloaded some pics off my camera tonight and found a few gems I had completely forgotten about. But I need to explain something: currently, Gutsy sleeps in a tent. We set it up in his room not too long ago, and he loved it so much that he wanted to take his bunk bed out.

Yes, we really did let him do this. He has a matress on the floor of the tent, a monitor, keyboard and mouse at the opening to watch streaming video, and he is in absolute heaven. We're either the best or worst parents on the planet, but I don't care which. You're only young once, right? This is a picture of him from tonight:

What 8-year-old boys' dreams are made of.

These are the hidden gems from the pre-tent stage. He figured out how to hang a hammock of sorts from his bunk bed. It was tied so well that he, both his brothers (including the huge teenage one) and our cocker spaniel could sit in it without falling to the floor - or the bottom bunk. I did a little photo shoot of him in it and got a few great shots of him in suspension. It looks like Dr. Spawn misdiagnosed his brother: There's no way this kid has a case of The Angers.

Frustration

Tik tok on the clock But the party don't stop.

FRUSTRATION noun

the feeling of being upset or annoyed as a result of being unable to change or achieve something:

The Maven and Gutsy are both feeling a great deal of frustration this evening.

When it's 11:30 and your eight-year-old went to bed at 8:30 and is still awake for some reason, frustration oozes thickly throughout the home.

The boy takes melatonin lately to help him get to sleep at a reasonable hour. Otherwise, he lies there awake, tossing and turning, unable to stop thinking long enough to pass out.

Tonight, he refused his melatonin and happily proclaimed he didn't need it.

He just took it 10 minutes ago.

We're all pretty frustrated. He was crying, I was consoling him and trying not to sound annoyed (and probably failing) and Geekster is now cuddling him to sleep.

Still, that kid is gosh darn cute and was angelic this evening - no complaints here, really. I just want to stop tucking him in every half hour and have time to, you know, blog or something.

That's about all you're going to get tonight, folks. I'm heading to bed. Spawnling and Intrepid are back to being institutionalized tomorrow morning (thankfully, Gutsy has one more PD day before he goes back to school). Must get my beauty sleep so that I can whisk them off, grab a coffee, and muster up the emotional strength to deal with Mr. Exhausted tomorrow. Should be a good time; I'd try to reserve your seats early. Popcorn is $2.50.

Promontory

PROMONTORY noun
A point of high land that juts out into the sea or a large lake; a headland:
The Maven stood on the rocky promontory, threatening to jump if March Break didn't end soon.

What a neat word. Up until last week when it was suggested by a blog reader who's obviously smarter than I am, I had no idea it even existed. Neat-o.

Promontory: A fancy word for "cliff."

If I had written about a promontory yesterday, it probably would have involved me saying how it might be nice to take final flight into an ocean of solitude, leaving behind the screaming and taunting of my wee gremlins who are getting oh-so-bored with our school-induced vacation. I've concluded that the individual who came up with the idea for March Break is either;

1. A sadist
2. A jerk
3. Someone who has ample money to entertain their kids for an entire week
4. A rich, sadistic jerk

But those angry thoughts are gone - poof! - out the window and quickly forgotten. Today I was granted a reprieve. One of my friends decided it would be nice to take Gutsy out mini putting this morning, then took him for lunch, then took him back to her house to play. Then - oh yes, it gets better - she took him to a movie this evening.

I don't know if I can put into words just how much this changed the dynamic in our home, but I'm a writer so it's my duty to at least try.

I've often said that Gutsy would have made a perfect only-child. He's one of those kids who loves attention from his parents, but also needs his space. However, the boy's station in life was to be placed between older and younger brothers. Gutsy is sort of the odd one out. He has different interests, a different stress threshold, and likes things a just so. When all three boys are home for any length of time, tensions start to build. On one hand, Gutsy likes to play with his brothers. On the other, he's quick to anger if they don't play the way he wants them do. And since he's smack dab in the middle age-wise, he plays with both and argues with both. This week there has been a ridiculous amount of arguing.

The last few days have been leading me further and further up the cliff, carefully considering a leap from the proverbial promontory into a blissful pool of insanity. Maybe Mommy Maven wouldn't hear them arguing anymore; arguments might sound like jovial singing in my special crazy place. You never know, right?

And then, a miracle happened: I got a phone call this morning asking if Gutsy would like to go out. This one act of kindness shifted our family's dynamic, throwing us all into a pleasant state of rest. I took Spawnling out for the morning, then dropped him off with Intrepid while I did some groceries - alone, all by myself, just me and my shadow cup of coffee. I can leave the oldest and youngest gremlins alone because they're ten years apart and, as a result, rarely fight. While I was gone, they watched TV, played Lego, and did a few other brotherly bonding activities. I didn't have to worry about answering a call from a sobbing child who was tattling on another sobbing child. It was like winning the lottery - which I then quickly spent at Costco. Yikes. Nobody told me I'd have to actually feed my kids, too. Isn't loving them enough?

Anyway, it's now evening and we're all relaxed now. Gutsy came home from tonight's Justin Beiber movie determined to find concert tickets and get a set of drums for his bedroom like the Beibz. I'll talk him down from his high tomorrow. He had a great day, and the smile on his face when he came in tonight was priceless. I owe my friend big, big, big.  I shall place her high on the promontory of adoration and shower her with coffees for all eternity.

One more weekend to go. One more, and I'll have time to track down that rich, sadistic jerk I mentioned earlier and kick him square in the junk.

Why The Maven should not teach school children

Gather 'round, children! We're about to learn something new from our very best friend, The Maven!

Hey, kids! Glad you could all be here today! Wow, there sure are a lot of you. Is it possible to sit the quiet ones closest to me? I'm a little frazzled today and I need to be near people who know how to use their indoor voice.

Oh, and ixnay the osenay ickerpay, will you? Move him far enough away that he can't wipe his fingers on my shirt. Gross me out.

Perfect. Thank you.

Now, kids, we're going to learn about my very favourite word. Actually, it's not always my favourite, but after the day I've had, it gets top billing in The Maven's Dictionary of Awesome Words and Stuff. It's a toughie, so I'll say it slowly and you can say it along with me. Ok? Ok! Here we go:

Va-sec-to-my. Va-sec-to-my. Vasectomy. Very good!

It sounds like a lot of you have never heard that word before. That's okay, you'll likely hear it again in about thirty years, either out or your own mouth, or from the poor woman who is suffocating under a pile of your offspring. I'll pull out my pocket dictionary and hold it up so you can all see - and I don't mean that as a play on words, kids. Your teacher is looking a little pale right now because she understands what "play on words" means. Lighten up, teach, and go get me a coffee, will you? My tax dollars pay for what's percolating in the staff room. Don't worry, the class is in good hands. I am The Maven, after all.

Anyway, here's what the dictionary says about our new word:

Vasectomy is a minor surgical procedure wherein the vasa deferentia of a man are severed, and then tied or sealed in a manner such to prevent sperm from entering the seminal stream (ejaculate).

I see the confusion in your innocent little eyes. And the nose picking from the kid in the corner, I might add. Is that a stress reliever, little man? Tell your parents you need a therapist. There's no shame in it; they probably have one, too.

Don't worry about the technical garble, my little friends. That mumbo jumbo doesn't mean much to you or me or anyone who doesn't have to actually perform a vasectomy. Only doctors have to care about that stuff. We need only to know that it helps mommies and daddies regain their sanity. "Sanity" means your breakfast gets made every day and you don't wake up to find mommy making little origami animals in the middle of the night. It's a good thing.

Let me explain how vasectomies work:

See, Daddy is an oil truck that never runs out of oil. Just when it looks like the tank is empty, he refills it. Kind of like the snot in little Timmy's nose. It's just always there, ripe for removal.

Mommy is a factory that assembles people-- Yes, little Sally, kind of like the Play-Doh factory. The difference is that Mommy's factory doesn't involve shoving some goop into a tunnel and squeezing out... Actually, it's a lot like a Play-Doh factory. When you get to high school, be sure to ask your guidance counselor about Harvard scholarships. You're a freaking genius in the making.

Mommy's factory has a furnace that needs oil from the hose coming out of Daddy's truck. If enough oil reaches the furnace, the factory lights turn on, buttons press and pistons, uh, pist, and the intricate and beautiful process of creating life begins. Nine months later, a gorgeous little human is shipped from the factory and into the loving arms of Mommy and Daddy.

Isn't that a sweet story? I'm getting a little teary. Timmy, stop hogging the tissues and give me one. You're pretty damn proficient with those fingers, anyway.

Eventually, though, the factory workers get tired. Building two or three of four of these baby models gets a little much. They start dreaming of warm beaches and looking at people in swimsuits who's bodies have never grown a baby. So, the day comes when the factory needs to be shut down permanently. There are some things Mommy can do to make that happen, but they involve a lot of demolition and renovations that are uncomfortable and sometimes dangerous. Besides, why does Mommy need to do everything? Why can't Daddy take some responsibility sometimes? I mean, it's always up to the woman, isn't it? "Are you on the pill," and "Here, hold the baby so I can go watch football," and "What do you mean you feel 'touched out?' I have needs too, you know," and...

Sorry, kids. I got off on a little tangent there.

Anyway, the point is that if your Daddy wants his truck to still park in the factory hanger on a regular basis, he's going to have to tie a knot in the hose. Otherwise, Mommy might be too exhausted from dealing with the tantrums and the fighting and the screaming and the crying and the throwing and the destroying and the tattling to want anything to do with Daddy, lest she get more of the same in another nine months or so.

And that is what a vasectomy is. My boys' daddy willingly had one, and on days like today, I am most certainly glad he did. In fact, when I am done with our little info session, I may make him some tea and kiss him and tell him thank you, thank you, thank you, three is more than enough and please excuse the twitching; it will go away once they've been sleeping for a couple of hours.

Any questions?