Author: theantsybutterflyadmin

We Travel Without Our Kid And No, We Aren’t Bad Parents For It

For six days, I watched the sun rise and set in a peaceful bliss, surrounded by the smell of the ocean, the site of beautiful palm trees, and the greetings from various local animals.

There was no one calling my name or asking me to make them something to eat, just so that they can refuse it. There was no one pulling on my shirt or crying in my ears because they couldn’t find a toy that was sitting directly in front of their face. There was no complaining, or whining, or worry.

Best of all, there was zero anxiety. read more

Facebooktwitterredditpinterestlinkedin

I Write Because I Love to Write: Two Years and Counting

November 2016

Two years!
Two years of blogging and writing and creating little memes.
Two years of spilling my life on paper – or screen, telling my story to anyone who will listen.
Two years of looking for connections and validation and camaraderie.
Two years of growing, and learning more about myself, my capabilities, and my strengths.
Two years of doing something I love to do.

I won’t lie, there have been days when I thought to myself, what am I doing? I can’t do this. I can’t write in a colourful and creative manner, drawing in readers from all over the world wide web to read stories about my life. Who’s going to care? Who’s going to listen to what little ole me has to say?

But then the community that I’ve stuffed myself into embraces me with warm words and appreciation. They connect with my words and suddenly, I’m not the only one who…

This community helps me grow and shares my words with their audiences. This community does nothing but lift each other up and I’m grateful I was able to leave my insecurities at the door and shove my way through like a cat through a mouse hole. Those in this community remind me of the importance of writing.

I want this. I want to write.

I write because it’s my favourite way to communicate. It’s the easiest way for me to release the immense and overwhelming amount of thoughts that go through my mind every day. When I was younger and going through the start of my depression, this was the way I communicated with my parents – through notes and letters. Yes, the same parents that I lived with and who I slept just feet away from.

Writing is my preferred choice of communication because I feel safe. I’m hidden behind words. I can say what I need to say without interruptions and confusions. I can lessen my anxieties by allowing my words to spill rather than drip. If you could see what goes on in my average sized head, you’d probably say it looked similar to an exploding file cabinet. Words – busy words – everywhere.

I write because it’s cathartic and it helps. It allows me to express myself in the rawest form and I get to decide if anyone else will get to hear my truths. I’m not bound by permanency until I say so.

I used to journal religiously back in high school, spilling my deepest most frightening thoughts on paper, writing vigorously until my arm cramped and I was forced to stop. You know those times. The years filled with teenage angst and emotions. Unsure where to turn or who to trust. The regular teenage hormones coupled with my developing mental illnesses became a terrifying concoction.

And writing was my life saver.

I write because I reach people. I have had a handful of people write to me, thanking me for sharing my words, the same words that have been stirring in their minds, but in which they couldn’t expel. I’ve also had people write to me to tell me that they’re there should I need them.

It’s an amazing feeling when you can share a less-than-fabulous moment about yourself and receive positive and supportive feedback from people you don’t know outside of social media. That connection is incredible and so appreciated.

I chose to start writing because I wanted to find myself again. I wanted something that was mine. I wanted to prove to myself that I could.

I keep writing because I want to.

Facebooktwitterredditpinterestlinkedin

I May Not Look Depressed But I Am

I woke up this morning with a headache and I’m pretty sure it’s the same headache I had yesterday. I’m also pretty sure that it’s not my usual run-of-the-mill headache. No, this one is different, and I know what it means.

It means that my depression is starting to resurface.

It means that my mood is starting to slip the way paint slides down a page, slowly yet steady. It means that I better look into my invisible yet handy resource bag stat and pull out some tools I can use to get through what’s coming.

These depression-headaches refuse to give way to any kind of warding. No amount of pills or essential oils or sleep can stave off what’s coming.

As I feel my depression inching its way up like a caterpillar climbs a tree, I know what it’s looking for. It’s looking for food and it knows where to find it.

This isn’t anything I’m not used to, however, my anxiety has been in the front seat for a while now so this is a pretty hard kick in the gut, especially when things have been pretty steady as of late.

While I’ve had my usual anxiety hanging around like the last leaf on a tree that refuses to break off before winter, it hasn’t felt debilitating in a while. Not only that, I’ve been feeling good about my writing and making progress in my future plans. To add to the good list, my son is in school, my marriage is healthy, and I’m back at work.  read more

Facebooktwitterredditpinterestlinkedin

The Day I Recognized That I Need to Change My Language

“You’re going to have to wait for daddy to come home. He’s better at these things than I am. You know, he’s better at figuring out how these things work and following instructions”

I’m sorry, what?

That’s what I said to my kid before I stopped myself in my tracks and took a moment to process what I just said. I just implied to my child – my son – that his dad is better at putting toys together than his mom. I just gave him the idea that his mom isn’t equipped to figure out the complexities of a Transformer (ages 8+, kinda tricky).

I may not be as good at “these things” as my husband, but I’m certainly no invalid. I’m an educated and strong woman. So it takes me a few more minutes to grasp the twists and turns and what pops in and out of this toy. I can still do it, and as the picture shows, I’ve got it down.

As my son gets older, I need to really start watching my words. He’s growing at the speed of light and we’re having in depth conversations. He’s picking up lingos – he’s called me a hot mess – and understanding certain terminology.

It all starts here, doesn’t it? It starts with us – the parents. Women are as valuable as men. Moms are just as equipped as dads. There are some things I prefer not doing – mowing the lawn, changing a tire – , but ultimately, I think there’s few things I couldn’t do.

I put together Jazz the Transformer today and my son gave me a high five. He bugs me to do “theses things” for him because he’s pretty certain I can. And whether or not I want to do whatever it is he’s asking of me – for the love, don’t ask me to clip that arm on that toy again! – I really should think about what it means to him when he asks me.

I’m mom – his hero. I’m mom – superwoman. I’m his mom – one of the only two people who love him with every atom and molecule.

He asks me to put toys together for him because, why wouldn’t he?

 

 

For More Parenting truths, see Top 9 Things I Want My Son to Know

Facebooktwitterredditpinterestlinkedin

Helping My Son Get Ready For His First Day of School

For those of you who have children in school, you must know how I’m feeling right now about my first – and only – child starting school. You know, those nervous and exciting feelings intertwining and running amok in your veins and you’re not quite sure how to handle them?

Well, that’s me to a T these days. My son is starting school in less than a month and I’m wondering how in this life of mine has time gone by so quickly. I mean, there are days when I can feel myself actually aging because time is moving as slow as it possibly can. Yet, here we are, pulling a Jurassic World backpack and blue lunch bag off the shelves and into my already full cart. Water bottle? Check. Splash pants? Check. Box of tissues beside the door and in the car ready for the day I need to send my tiny human off into the world on his own? Check – but remember to get some backup.

I don’t want to say that I blinked and all of a sudden my son turned into a four year old, because I can assure you I tried blinking those long dreadful days away and I consistently opened my eyes to the same madness I wished would vanish. But the old saying is, in fact, true: the days are long but the years are short. 

So here I sit, thinking about how my son is quickly inching closer to starting this next new and exciting chapter of his life and he’s clueless as to what it entails. To him, it’s riding a school bus and seeing his best daycare bud every day. To me, it’s letting go of my baby and following him into the next stage of his life.

I’ve been plagued with questions for the past few months – all from myself, of course – wondering if I’ve prepared him enough. Can he spot his name? Can he count high enough? Will he listen to his teacher? What does he need to know when he enters kindergarten? What will they be looking for? My boy is smart, sure, but is he up to par with the other kids? Will the teacher be calling me to tell me that I’m a horrible mom for not teaching my kid to spot all the letters in the alphabet?

I’m worried I haven’t done enough to ready him for what’s coming.

As if the universe heard my concerns, I got an email from a woman who found my blog and wanted to know if I would be interested in educational worksheets for my child. Of course I responded immediately and asked for some sample pages. She provided me with this kindergarten_maze_school  and I gave it to my kid to try it out. He got into and was able to work on it with little help. The site has all kinds of helpful worksheets to help kids move forward in their education.

So, if you’d like to give your kids a little pre-school challenge, or if you’re looking for some extra resources for your kids to help them along the way, be sure and check out Education.com for educational games including math games,  printables, and resources.

Starting school is an exciting new experience for our little humans. I’m looking forward to being a part of my son’s journey and I’m there to help him every step of the way.

Facebooktwitterredditpinterestlinkedin

To My Son With Love On Your Birthday: A Letter From Your Mommy

June 1 2014. Mama is more than ready for your to come out.

To My Boy On Your 4th Birthday,

Four years have gone by as fast as the sparkles extinguished on the cheap dollar-store sparklers we got to celebrate. While the days seem to move at a turtle’s pace, the time runs as quick as a road-runner. One minute we’re counting down the seconds to bed time and the next you’re a whole year older than you were.

Today is not just your day, but it’s our day too. We waited a long time for you to join us – and then some. First it felt like forever to get pregnant and I was losing hope that it would happen. When I had a miscarriage, I felt more defeated than ever. But then there was you, the light we were waiting for.

You were resistant to come out into the open world. You held on until the last possible moment when they literally had to cut you out of my body. You were eleven days late and I impatiently waited for you to grace us with your presence. I should have realized your stubbornness then. I should have known what the future had in store for us, but I was so overwhelmed with the fact that I was finally able to hold you.

And then you came, and now here you are. A boisterous, wild, stubborn, defiant, strong-minded, sweet, and clever little boy. You’re an instigator and you push buttons, but you’re also empathetic and generous. You’re as wild as the golden locks you refuse to let me brush and as bouncy as a Gummy Bear, from the 80’s cartoon show your parents watched as children.

While I credit myself on knowing you inside out, you still find ways to surprise me. You are confident and sure of yourself. You’re a go-getter and we love that about you. Sure it’s frustrating at times, but the fact that you hold yourself with such pride and surety lets me know that you are going to be more than okay.

My little human, you are something I never knew you could be. You fill me with a love I never understood until you came along. You live life the way everyone on this round Earth should; you don’t skimp out, that’s for sure. You are seen and heard and known by everyone who crosses your path.

I can’t wait to see what the future holds, but I’ll simmer down a bit since I am now realizing how fast time actually goes. You start school in a short few months and from there, who knows.

My little bear, I know you will do great things when you grow up. You’re personality and your dedication to everything you do says it all. Your persistence and ambition relaxes me in the sense that I know you will continue to live life to it’s fullest and tear down any walls that get in your way.

Happy birthday to our one and only child, our amazing little human.

With love,

Mommy & Daddy xo

Facebooktwitterredditpinterestlinkedin

Why I Don’t Do Diets or Cleanses: This Is My Reality

It’s getting close to summer and everyone is racing to lose those extra 5, 10, 15 pounds they consumed over the cold winter months. For me, the gorging was unstoppable. I drank and ate whatever and whenever I wanted. I left all my insecurities outside in the freezing cold and was able to shut the door on them.

Until now.

Now that the warmer weather is floating in, I’m left feeling bloated. Not just that, my face has broken out and I feel heavy and frumpy. I don’t feel like myself. I regret the way I’ve eaten and the promises I broke to myself in favour of gluttony. It was fun while it lasted, but now I’m paying the price.

All over my social media are ads for different ways lose those extra pounds. Such ads include Shakeology, 21 Pounds in 21 Days, Hydroxycut, and Whole 30. My world, they are all so appealing to me, however, I’m keeping my distance.

Now, before I give you my reason why I’m steering clear of the various weight loss methods out there, I need you to understand that I am not bashing these practices in any way. I know they work for some people, but for me, they read “danger” in red bold letters splashed across them.

You see, I have a long history of disordered eating. I live with Body Dysmorphia Disorder and, over the years, I’ve taken on several bad habits to lose weight. I’ve done diets, fad diets, popped more pills than I can remember, drank teas, counted calories, and tried cutting out foods. I even once tried a colon cleanse that ended poorly. Once I get it in my head to start diet or a cleanse, my obsessions come flooding back in like the water over a broken dam. I get caught in the storm and I have a hard time getting out.

Now being a gorger with limited willpower, it takes a lot for me stay in control. It’s not unheard of for me to binge and then work out excessively with the hope to lose the weight. I’ve gotten a lot better at managing my impulses, but I still go through this at least once a month.

My love for food and my need to be thin are at a constant battle.

I know that if I try to use one of these weight loss methods, I will go downhill. Fast. I can’t risk it. It’s taken me too long to get where I am right now and I’m not even where I want to be. My work on accepting my body as it is is a slow process, but it is moving forward. With the help of the Body-Positivity campaign and people all over the media tearing down the one-size-fits-all age-old idea of what the body “should” look like, a difference in being made and I’m coming around.

One of my biggest fears is having my son witness my old habits that are harmful. I don’t want him to know that his mom is insecure about her body. I don’t want him to hear my sobs as I look at myself in the mirror while pulling back my rolls and lifting my skin. And while he witnesses me weighing myself on a regular basis, I don’t make a peep when I see that I am a few pounds heavier than I want to be. This all here is enough to make me want to continue down my path in recovery.

Not being able to indulge in my preferred methods of weight loss allows me to practice healthy self-care and my family has got my back. We cook healthy foods and my son is an awesome motivator. While he doesn’t really eat the foods we make because he’s four and eating is rarely on his list of things to do these days, I still make them because this is what I want him eat, should he decide he’s hungry one day. I’ve cut myself some slack in the workout department as well, because sometimes life is better when it’s lived than when it’s not. Sometimes that after-work workout isn’t going to happen because coffee with a friend is more fulfilling. And that’s okay.

I don’t want to be controlled by this obsession to look a certain way. 

The ads may dangle in front of my face like candy to a child, but I resist.

I resist because I have to.

I need to do this the old fashion way and if it takes me a little longer, then so be it.

 

 

Facebooktwitterredditpinterestlinkedin

Breaking Down The Door: Let’s Talk About Mental Illness

The recent passing of celebrities Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain have opened up the conversations we need to keep having: mental illness is a real thing and while invisible, it can be debilitating and lonely. It is not enough to only talk about it when it occurs. We need to keep that conversation going, to ensure people that they are not alone.

Last year I wrote a piece on the passing of Chester Bennington, a brilliant musician who lost his battle with depression and died by suicide. Today, after hearing about the second celebrity suicide in one week, I revisited that piece. I took time to reread I was reminded why I wrote it.

I’m here to bring awareness about a very real situation.

I am a woman who has lived with depression and anxiety for over twenty years. I am also a suicide survivor. It took me a long time to find the words to describe my experience to share it with the general public, but I did it. I did it because there are too many people living under their cloaks, afraid to take them off. There are too many people who find it necessary to paint over their faces and souls because they can’t to be vulnerable.

Depression is a disease. It’s an illness.  Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It doesn’t discriminate and it has no preference who it attacks.

 

About 4000 Canadians die by suicide every year.

We – society – is in the habit of viewing celebrities as content and happy people because they can do whatever they want. They have the freedom to travel and live limitless lives.

But the reality of the lives of some celebrities became clear this week. Money and fame don’t necessarily equal happiness. To me, Anthnoy Bourdain, a celebrity chef, had it all; he had a career I could only wish I had. He had fame, fortune, had his own show,  traveled the world to experience different experiences and foods, and had his own cookbook. But unbeknownst to me and the rest of the world, he was battling demons we knew nothing about.

The stigma that surrounds suicide and mental illness is staggering, so much so that after I had my published piece on suicide out there, I was worried about what people who didn’t know about it would think about me. I was worried they would think I was selfish and inconsiderate. But what a lot of people are forgetting is that for those suffering, it’s much more than that.

We need to understand that the stigma around mental illness doesn’t just affect us ‘general’ people, it affects everyone.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, we really do need to keep the conversations about mental illness and suicide open.

If you’re reading this and your lost, or confused, or feeling alone, I promise you this, you are not alone.

I hear you. I see you. I am you.

Canadian Association for Suicide Prevention
204-784-4073

Canadian Mental Health Association
613-745-7750

 

Facebooktwitterredditpinterestlinkedin

The Day I Looked In The Mirror: Being Worth The Time And Energy

Post haircut

I don’t know about you, but I’ve had moments – many moments – where I’ve looked like my mood. You know? Like the way you feel is directly represented in the outfit you chose, or the way your hair looks defines your life at the time. Looking back on the past twenty years or so, I see a lot of mood in the way I presented myself. A lot of negative mood, if I’m being honest.

The morning I went for a hair cut was the morning I took a long look at myself in the mirror.  My hair looked like a bird set up shop on my head. It was literally starting to dread itself. All it needed was a few twigs from the trees outside and you’d think I was gunning to be a model for one of those extreme fashion shows. It was limp in some areas, nappy in others, and I couldn’t tame it for the life of me.

It took a mere second and I was judging everything about myself.

Suddenly I became frumpy and bloated and I didn’t like the girl staring back at me in the bathroom mirror. I tried on several different outfits before finally picking one that I felt covered up my frump the best. It was an outfit I threw on with no care at all, not even thinking how it fully complimented my strung-out hair and fowl mood.

I got through the day by placing one of my signature fake smiles across my face – making sure it reached my eyes. I held it there until it was time to go to my appointment, which felt like an eternity. However, the moment my new miracle-worker held my hair in her hands, my mood started to shift. I knew things could only get better from here. And they did. Once she completed her magic on the confusion happening on my head, the fog started to lift. She did a wonderful job and despite the crappy outfit I had on, I felt fabulous.

Fabulous. A word you never would have heard me utter about myself 20+ years ago. A word I’m still learning to use when describing myself.

You see, self-esteem is something I’ve struggled with since that kid in elementary school told me that if I think I’m pretty, then that means I’m conceited. That stung. I didn’t understand why thinking I was pretty was such a bad thing, but I knew I didn’t want to be labelled as conceited. Since I was around the tween ages and nothing made sense to me, I followed that kid’s advice and changed the way I saw myself. Since then, insecurity has followed me around like a lost puppy.

Being diagnosed with depression and anxiety in high school took a major toll on my well-being and I flipped back and forth from looking like a schlep and actually trying to look presentable.

With a little help from my friends, my tapered-jeans went out the window and I was introduced to this thing called “90’s fashion”. I looked better, but I wasn’t cured. I was still riding the emotional teeter-totter. I would go from wearing my 1980-blue-elastic-at-the-ankle sweatpants to wearing flared-jeans and a fitted top. I went from keeping my hair up in a bun with frizzy bits poking out like I’d been zapped by lightening, to jazzing up my hair by either straightening my curls or styling them.

My refusal to invest in myself on a full-time basis continued into my early twenties. I was becoming far too comfortable with not caring about myself. There were periods of times where I thought I didn’t have to try because I should be enough, and I even tried to hit on guys while wearing clothes meant for sleeping, stains and all.

I mean, I’m cute right? Sure, I look like a hot mess, but it’s inside that counts, isn’t it?

Looking back, I can see the pattern that was painted on the wall in which I refused to see at the time. When you’ve convinced yourself you’re not enough, you become that: not enough. When you dismiss the idea that you’re worth the time, you fall deeper into the black hole that feeds on your unhappiness. The mind has a way to trick you into believing you’re not enough when in fact, you are. But it also can change your thought process, if you allow it.

When I got home from my hair cut, I looked at myself in the mirror. Like, really looked. As my hair draped around my shoulders, I realized that all those times when I was moody and felt crappy, I was also presenting myself as how I felt. Happy times meant neat hair, flowered skirts, and colourful tops. Crappy times meant nappy hair, and the same unflattering outfits. I may have seemed happy at the time, despite what I looked like – I have mastered the skill in shielding my emotions –  but I can see now that I wasn’t.

We’re all worth the time and energy we need to spend on ourselves to make ourselves feel good. Wearing our fowl moods will only allow us to further bask in negativity. I’d like to start making more of an effort on myself, especially when I’m in a nasty funk.

I think I owe myself that much. I think we all do.

 

For more on self-esteem, come read This Woman Was Beautiful and I Wanted to Tell Her

Facebooktwitterredditpinterestlinkedin

Sleeping With the Enemy – When You Are Your Worst Critique

The other day, I bumped into an old acquaintance. She’s pretty judgmental and I always feel like I have to prove something to her. She gives me that disapproving look that says it all: you’re not good enough. She’s the worst.

Unfortunately, this acquaintance is a little more than an acquaintance. I’ve know her forever. Literally, forever. This acquaintance is me.

I’m my worst enemy when it comes to judgment.

I have this unrealistic vision of how things should be like and how my child should behave. I think, I must be a bad mom since my kid is refuses to calm down like I’ve asked.

He’s three, did I mention that?

When we’re out in public or around people, I expect so much from him. That’s pretty awful of me, I know. But I can’t help it. I’m worried of being judged by anyone around me. Even friends!

Over the weekend, we had some friends and their kids over. My son was being silly and a bit rougher than I’d like. He also hadn’t napped.

Because he was so excited to see everyone and he was running on low, he was extra wild. He stuck his hand in the toilet while another kid was trying to go. He hit another kid on the head with a wooden flute. He whipped beach balls at the kids. He wouldn’t eat his dinner, which of course made me crazy. And then, when everyone was leaving, he threw in the I’m-so-tired temper tantrum for good measure.

I felt like a failure. I felt like I was a bad parent because my son wasn’t a robot.

And that’s what that is. A robot.

**Spoiler alert: my son is a human toddler, not a robot**

While all this was going on, my friends were not the ones judging me. Oh no. It was me. I couldn’t help but wonder what they thought of me as a parent. I couldn’t help but fear that they may see myself the way I do when my son is acting out. I have these unrealistic high expectations that I put on myself and it adds stress and tension to the family.

“Just calm down mama!”

I spent the following morning ugly crying as I thought back on what I couldn’t change. I felt like I needed to apologize to someone for my son’s behaviours. To whom? Who deserves this apology? I can’t think of anyone but my son. I owe him an apology for putting such high expectations on him because I’m afraid of being judged. I owe it to my family to stop being so hard on myself because it ends up dragging us down.

We, as parents, put so much value in what other people may think about us and with that, we forget to follow ourselves. We forget that what matters is what works for you and your family. What is right for you and your family.

My promise to my family is that I drop these shenanigans. Stop being so hard on myself. Stop trying to impress everyone else because who cares what everyone thinks.

Continue being the mom that I am because my son loves me and that’s what matters.

This piece originally appeared as a Micro-Blog on Facebook 

Facebooktwitterredditpinterestlinkedin