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Browsing Tag: self-esteem

Who Needs Confidence, Anyway

You guys. My kids: they’re so sweet and kind and loving–but they need to work on their compliments. Example #1: I’ve stopped straightening my hair most days and am just letting the crazy waves be themselves. I’m still not too sure about living daily life looking like a knockoff Medusa, but the consensus from my girls is that I need to keep it this way, since it’s more “me.” I thought this was a good thing, but… …from Saoirse: “Mom. I like your hair longer. Now that you’re wearing your hair frizzy you should keep it that way.” Yep. Great. Example #2: First, you need to know 3 things: a) Our old house had a pool. We miss that pool very, very much; b) Quinlan loves that I’m a writer. She actually gets annoyed when she doesn’t see me overwhelmed and unwashed surrounded by notes and manuscript pages; and c) Most authors don’t make enough money to quit their day jobs, let alone afford extravagances. A child of one, though, has no concept of this. So… …Quinlan: “Mom. You need to…

I Didn’t Need That Confidence Anyway

Note: If this story looks familiar, it’s because I posted a version of it today on my Facebook author page–and then realized that it’s a conversation that needs to stay in my memory for about forever. Or at least until this color fades.  I saw my hairdresser last week after a long summer of sun-bleached hair torture, and, while she was fixing said mop of chorine-soaked frizz, she unintentionally turned me “bronde” (I much prefer my normal shade of “blrown”). I was feeling a bit down (I mean, it’s just hair, but when that hair is attached to one’s head, one tends to become attached) until I walked in the door to my house. Saoirse saw me, and her face lit up. “Mom!” she said, and touched it. “I really love your hair! It looks so PRETTY.” I knew she liked it because my hair now more closely resembled hers, but I still held on to that last shred of hope that was my self-esteem. “It does?” I said. She was smiling in that kid-approved way…

Whatever, Gisele

I’m nine weeks postpartum, and was feeling okay about myself, overall. I mean, am I going to be trotting myself around in a bikini anytime soon (ever)?  Gads, no. Am I back in my old clothes yet? Dude. I already said, it’s only been nine weeks. I’m not Gisele, who gives birth in a bathtub at home then goes out and buys a two-piece.  Sheesh. But for nine weeks out of childbirth, and my third c-section, and, you know, the sleepless nights and sore boobs and yaddayaddayadda, I’m doing okay. Like, I wore mascara today. Where’s my paparazzi shot, eh? So imagine my surprise, when, as I was helping Saoirse zip up her coat today, she leaned forward to touch my necklace (Oh, did I mention I was wearing a necklace? Yeah, that’s right. I have the foresight to put together jewelry to wear out in public. Take THAT, Gisele!).  It was a beaded one, with multiple strands designed to keep people’s eyes UP HERE, rather than on the grossly ample (for me) cleavage that ebbs and flows out of my top depending on…