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?

Buffet (of life)

MmmmMmmMmMmm. I miss you, buffet.

BUFFET noun

A meal at which guests serve themselves from various dishes displayed on a table or sideboard.

The Maven wishes there was a local gluten-free buffet, because she misses them. 

There is so much going on right now that I don't even know how I'm finding the time to blog. I must adore you all immensely to whore out what little energy I have left unto you and your reading pleasure. You're welcome. You can pay me back in coffee.

There are big things afoot for The Maven. Monetary things. Job-like things. I have a fairly large contract I'm working on right now, plus another one looming (and not official until I sign on the dotted line in virgin blood, of course). And I use "looming" in the most positive way possible, because I'm actually quite excited about the whole thing. I like the idea of working part-time because it keeps my mind busy. 

The Maven's mind is a very scary place, indeed.

I also like the money. I like being able to pay bills without feeling sick to my stomach. I like not always having to say "no" to my kids when they ask for something. Turning my children into spoiled brats who get everything they want is an important part of being a Generation Now parent.  I especially like not having to tell myself "no" all the time. I want to say "Yes, Maven, you may have that beautiful pair of boots," and "Yes, Maven, you can buy a latte at Fourbucks today and not shed a single tear of guilt as you enjoy it." I'm a simple woman, but even simple women have needs, yo. 

What I'm not ready for, I've realized, is full-time work. I think that would be a huge shock to my system and to my family after being home for so long. I want to ease back in slowly, and wait until all three gremlins are in school full-time before I explore that option. The contracts that found me are perfect; And they have found me, which is the really cool thing. 

I'm not a God person (no offence, God people), but I do believe that when I put energy into the universe, it often listens. Between the moment I had the realization that I was ready to move from casual work into something more regular and the time when I was about to start telling people I was looking for just that, these contracts found me. Both were from amazing people who I admire and respect. Both are very suited to yours truly. Both are exactly what I was looking for right now, and what I need to get my professional groove back. I've been out of the game a long time, folks. This is some scary stuff.

I have worries about being able to balance it all. Can I really add more stuff on to my already full buffet plate? Can I still maintain my mothering mediocrity and pay some bills at the same time? Having worked out logistics with my husband and talked it over with the Gremlins Three, I've come to the conclusion that I can. I'm The freaking Maven, Mr. Bigglesworth. I can juggle a machete and a couple of vials of tiger's blood, no problem. I can figure this out.  I'll still see my kids off to school, I'll see them after school, I'll spend time with Spawnling on days when he's home. But I'll also be making room for something I want to personally, professionally, and financially. 

So what if my plate is already full? Life is a buffet: a delicious, Chinese buffet. And my plate is full of yummy, MSG-filled food, but it's missing something: chicken balls. 

You can't go to a Chinese buffet and not eat chicken balls, because that's like reading Playboy for the articles. Nobody does that, even if they say they do. 

I've realized through a lot of soul-searching that, my serving of chicken balls is important to me. It's the missing side dish on my plate of life. It's not that I don't enjoy my family beef and broccoli, or friends shanghai noodles, it's just that I didn't have work chicken balls on my last four plates of food and I need to have some before I leave. So I'm going to cram them onto this plate. Eventually, the rest of the food will settle around the chicken balls, and everything will be as it should. And I will be happy, because I will have a decent work-life balance balls in my mouth.

Life analogies are awesome, aren't they?

So give me some love and support while I make this terrifying/awesome/overwhelming/exciting trip to the Chinese buffet, ok? I promise to save you some balls.

Free

This is my "get out of writing free" card. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.

I had a day so busy I couldn't possibly explain it 2 minutes before midnight, and I chose to go hang out with the girls tonight instead of blogging.

But I'll do a great one tomorrow, so don't hate me.

And quit judging. It makes your palms hairy.

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.

Indubitable

INDUBITABLE

 adj.

that cannot be doubted : patently evident or certain : unquestionable.

The fact that I need a coffee right now is indubitable.

I was scanning through the long list of suggested words from my Facebook group this evening, and none were jumping out at me. It's not that there aren't a ton of impressive suggestions, it's just that I'm feeling rather uninspired right now. 

If I had picked my own word to write about on this dreary Saturday, it would have been "meh." That pretty much sums it up.

I was still on a high most of the day from the unexpected break my friend Liliane gave me when took Gutsy out of the equation yesterday. Everyone felt renewed this morning - except Gutsy. He came home from the Justin Beiber movie energized and inspired, and stayed up until eleven wondering how he could become the next big pop senstation. No big deal, though. He could just sleep in.

Or not. He was up at 7 AM, ready to take on the world - or at least his little brother. Like just about everyone on the planet, when Gutsy is tired, he has a short fuse and little tact. And I was okay with the fighting for the morning - I really was. Then my neighbour called and invited the middle Gremlin to her place for part of the afternoon, which felt like winning the freaking sweepstakes. I sent him over, let the house fall into relative silence as everyone took some downtime, then barricaded myself in the bedroom with a coffee while I watched two episodes of Damages - my new favourite obsession. I then headed over to my neighbour's place with two more coffees and lots of gratitude. 

But by late this afternoon, as I was pulling my freshly baked bread out of the machine and tripling my favourite gluten-free pizza crust recipe, the shine started wearing off. There's only so much brotherly brawling a Maven can handle in a single day, okay? Add to that nearly a full week of noise and chaos and refereeing, and it's no wonder my happy breaker is tripping more easily these days. 

My friend Deb suggested the I write about the word "indubitable". Frankly, I could have used it in so many ways after the last few hours: 

The fact that March Break needs to be over, like, now, is indubitable.

It's indubitable that the first thing I'd purchase with any lottery winnings would be a nanny service.

Indubitably, The Maven is close to losing her ever-loving shit. 

And so on.

But, surprisingly, those aren't the first uses that crossed my mind. My initial use of the word was: I indubitably love my kids. Followed closely by: The Maven's awesomeness is indubitable, but whatever. At least the narcissism came second; My therapist says this is progress.

I really do love my gremlins. Sometimes I whine about the loudness and dream of a job that involves a fair bit of travel, but I do adore each little horn on their furry skulls. They are the string on my homemade macaroni necklace; the duct tape binding our love story; the crazy glue on my cracked vase of life. 

I love them, indubitably. Even on hectic/domestic March Break.

And I also love myself for being awesome enough to remember that. But only secondly.

And speaking of awesome, you should really check out  my friend Liliane's - yes, the one who saved my sanity yesterday - letter in today's Ottawa Citizen. In it, she thanks a local restaurant for going above and beyond to make her son Jacob's birthday extra special. Jacob is a good friend of Gutsy's, and one of the bravest people I know. He spent months in the hospital battling brain cancer and is currently in remission. Indubitably, he is my family's hero. When you read his mom's letter, please make sure to have some tissues ready: you're going to need them.

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.

Kerfuffle

KERFUFFLE noun

British Informal

A commotion or fuss, especially one caused by conflicting views;

There was a kerfuffle over just who could yell the loudest while mom was trying to rest.

I got next to no sleep last night. I had coffee far too late in the evening, then stayed up watching lawyer dramas until 1:00 AM. At three in the morning I woke up to a somewhat urgent issue with our sump in the basement, which Geekster and I spent about an hour fixing. I managed to fall back asleep at 5:00, but was woken up at 7:00 by a four-year-old demanding cereal and juice.

Naturally, an unrested mom is cause for a great deal of chaos the following day; it's some kind of sick universal law that plagues me each and every time I don't get enough sleep. Either that, or I take things far too seriously when I can barely keep my eyes open. But I'm pretty sure it's the former. Life is out to get me. I'm attractive, and it hates me for it. 

Thankfully, Life's loathing of yours truly has been decently spread throughout this past week instead of being entirely centred on one day. This was thoughtful of Life, making sure I get a slap or two each day rather than a full-blown, drag-out pummelling on Thursday. And speaking of fights - or kerfuffles - there have been many. When they're tired, bored, anxious, angry or hungry, The Gremlins Three have a propensity for battling it out. They'll seize each and every opportunity to yell, threaten, demand, hurt or take away from another sibling. This sport will surely become olympic-bound at some point, but for now it's regularly practiced and perfected in my very own living room. 

Why they couldn't have picked up a gentler pass time - like hockey, or rugby - is beyond me. 

People don't always understand why I'm not a big fan of March Break. They can't relate to the sheer dread that washes over me when I can no longer ignore the impending black cloud about to descend on my home. I'm quite sure there are Facebook groups and web boards out there with the sole purpose of Maven-bashing. They probably have names like "Click 'like' if you think The Maven is an unfit mother" and "Moms who love their kids and want to do a bit of Maven trashing."

That's fine. You can look down on me if you'd like.  Everyone needs a hobby. But the way I see it, if you don't get where I'm coming from, there are only a few reasons:

1. You have never spent a good deal of time around my children.

2. You have no children, but have this dreamy idea that if you did, you would love to have your perfect little creations at home with you for a week. Dreams are nice, aren't they?

3. You have perfect little creations who never get bored and or start a kerfuffle. I somehow find this hard to believe, but let's assume about 1.7% of people do. Miracles do happen.

4. You've found a legal way to sedate your not-so-perfect creations during school holidays, making March Break nothing more than a long stream of sleeping in and iCarly reruns. I salute you.

5. You don't know about this thing called "winter" that us Canadians face. Early March is not about daffodils and returning songbirds up here, folks. It's about snowstorms and frostbite. We are either homebound or we spend a great deal of money we don't have taking them bowling every freaking day.  

6. You do some really amazing drugs. I can't do drugs for a few reasons, and am therefore slightly envious of your psychological escapism.

7. You think you have children, but they are in fact very real-looking dolls. You are somewhat insane, and push them around in a carriage, cooing softly, and telling everyone on the street how your babies sleep through the night. And I kind of envy your crazy, I really do.

So you keep judging and rocking those "babies". I'll throw on my striped shirt, grab my whistle, and try to break up as much of the kerfuffling going on over here as I can manage.

Incidentally, "kerfuffling" isn't a word, but it really should be. We should have a Facebook group about that.