Fantastic Mr. Fox Syndrome

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Aprille at Beautiful In His Time recently wrote a post about how she saw a little Lightning McQueen in herself. It seems we can learn a lot from our children’s entertainment. A recent addition to Colt’s top 3 movies is Fantastic Mr. Fox, the 2009 stop-motion animated film based on the book by Roald Dahl. At first, the movie creeped me out. But after several viewings over the span of a day or two (thank you, toddler love of repetition), I started to enjoy it. Then, this quote suddenly stuck out to me:

“I think I have this thing where everybody has to think I’m the greatest, the quote unquote ‘Fantastic Mr. Fox’, and if they aren’t completely knocked out and dazzled and slightly intimidated by me, I don’t feel good about myself.”

I hear you, Mr. Fox. I think I have the same complex. Now, I haven’t been shot at or helped destroy an entire community in my pursuit of fantastic-ness, but I did make a pretty good mess of my life.

My name was fairly well-known in the mommy circles at my last base. I helped found a breastfeeding support group and was all over the Facebook group, answering questions. Later, I became the first dedicated lactation consultant at the base hospital. I guess I was pretty good at my job, because the breastfeeding rates spiked shortly after I started (I’m assuming I contributed somewhat to the increase).

I had two commercials on the local Armed Forces Network channels:

This one’s all me: http://www.facebook.com/video/embed?video_id=1994620313127

This one’s a voice over: http://www.facebook.com/video/embed?video_id=488540477827683

A photo of me nursing my son was used to advertise the 2012 Big Latch On held at our base.

Image used in a magazine ad for the Big Latch On 2012

Image used in a magazine ad for the Big Latch On 2012

On the breastfeeding support group Facebook page, moms were constantly saying, “Go see Sara! She really helped me with xyz.”

I’m not going to lie – I loved the attention. I was a workaholic, so I thrived on workplace accolades. Every time I was mentioned, praised, thanked, I felt validated. I smugly thought of the doubters who didn’t think I could do the job and mentally gave them the finger while blowing a raspberry. I reassured myself that I was a good person because look at all the good I’m doing and how much people appreciate me.

Then all that came crashing down, as I’ve mentioned before. And I realized I didn’t need workplace fame to feel like a good person. Or so I thought.

I’m part of several breastfeeding Facebook groups associated with my soon-to-be-new home. I chime in from time to time, but I’ve kept a low profile since we’re not there yet. There are a couple private practice IBCLC’s in the area already, so I’m not really sure how much work I’ll be doing. I’ve been toying with opening my own private practice, but kind of want to wait and see what it’s like after I get there. With at least two other IBCLCs in the area, plus WIC, I’m wondering if the market is already oversaturated.

So really, I’m worried about my ego. I’m worried that I’ll hang my IBCLC shingle out and nobody will want to use me. I’m worried that I’ll take it personally and see it as a rejection. I’m scared of being just another breastfeeding advocate and not the local celebrity I used to be. I’m scared that the reason I want to hang out my shingle is because I want to be that local celebrity again. I feel a twinge of jealousy every time I see one of the other IBCLC’s name-checked in the local Facebook groups. I want to jump on there and start tooting my own horn about all the women I helped at my last base and how great everyone thought I was.

And that’s when I realize I’ve got a huge red flag waving in my face.
I’ve got Fantastic Mr. Fox Syndrome again.

CC image of fox courtesy of digitalprimate on Flickr

CC image of fox courtesy of digitalprimate on Flickr

I have to dazzle, to delight, to be amazing or I’m no good to anyone. This time it really snuck up on me. I thought I was doing a pretty good job appreciating me for me, without the need for external validation. This is a reminder that I am a work-in-progress. That I need to be mindful of the true motivation behind my thoughts and emotions. That my issues with compulsive thinking are always lurking in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to pounce.

This could be contributing to my recent depression flare. It sucks to know I’ll always be trying to stay one step ahead of my brain’s desire to revert to compulsive thinking. It’s exhausting. It’s sad because sometimes, I just want to be “normal.” I don’t want to have to constantly worry about whether what I’m doing is healthy or not. I don’t want to have to question my motives. I just want to live.

But, I’m different. I’ll always be different. And that’s ok.  I suppose I can find some comfort in another Fantastic Mr. Fox quote (look how nicely I’m wrapping this piece up. Go me). Towards the end of the movie, Felicity Fox refers to Mr. Fox when she says this to her son Ash:

We’re all different… Him, especially. But there’s something kind of fantastic about that, isn’t there?

Girly should not be an insult

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The Stir recently published an article talking about the abuse being heaped on Rachel Zoe for keeping her toddler’s hair long. Their question was whether his hair was too girly. My question is, why the hell does this matter?

My almost 3 year old son has long hair. He is often mistaken for a girl, which actually amuses me more than it annoys me. He wears jeans, t-shirts and Vans everyday; the only thing that people would think is “girly” are his gorgeous blonde locks. His hair is silky, hangs a little past his ears and shows a bit of my curl when it’s humid. Combine this with his big blue eyes, dimpled smile and sunny nature, and he’s pretty much irresistible.

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I dare you to resist this mug

People ask me when I’m going to get his hair cut. My dad teases me about giving him a buzz like Pop. I am in no hurry to cut it. For one thing, if you ask him if he wants it cut, he’ll give you an emphatic “No!” and run away. For another, his hair provides him comfort. He is a hair-twirler, just like his Daddy. He always played with my hair while nursing and a sure sign that he’s tired is when he starts twirling his own hair. We even have an ultrasound picture that looks like he’s twirling his hair. If I sheared his hair off, I’d deprive him of something important to him. Why the hell would I want to do that?

Plus, I don’t feel like I need to buy into society’s definition of boy or girl. On his own, he gravitates toward motorcycles, helicopters and construction stuff – stereotypical boy fare. But, he loves cooking and playing with toy kitchens and Mulan is one of his favorite movies – things more likely to be associated with little girls. I would be happy whether he played with all “boy” stuff or all “girl” stuff. You know why? Because he’s a toddler and he’s just starting to explore the world. I don’t want to limit his experiences to only what society thinks he is “supposed” to do because he is male. I want to expose him to as much as possible so he can figure out what his passion is, not hat someone else thinks it should be.

The article in The Stir wonders why we have such attachment to so-called boys’ haircuts for boys and girls’ haircuts for girls. Great, they’re supportive of what they call “gender-bending” haircuts. But then it goes and ends with the question, “What do you think about little boys with ‘girly’ haircuts?” WTF. Don’t sit there and wonder why we feel the need to label haircuts for little kids and then go and do some labeling yourself!! Long hair is not girly. Repeat. Long hair is not girly. It is simply LONG. Just like we shouldn’t call little girls with short hair “boyish,” we shouldn’t call little boys with long hair “girly.” Call them what they are – beautiful children.

Or at least stop trying to make it into an insult. That’s the heart of it. Our society has decided that men should feel insulted when they are told they are like the opposite sex. Girly man, throw like a girl, and pussy are all insults piled on men that are actually more denigrating to women. I don’t think there is anything wrong with being like a girl; maybe that’s why it doesn’t bother me when people mistake my son for a girl.

girly not an insult

My husband is in the Air Force and is required to keep his hair short. I’m sure there will come a time when Colt wants hair like Daddy’s. When that day comes, I will make it happen for him. Until then, I get to enjoy his beautiful, long, some-consider-girly-but-that’s-ok-with-me hair.

The view from inside

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My chest aches. I imagine it as a big ball of grayness – sadness and nothingness all at once – right in the center of my chest. I’m exhausted. I have unexplained headaches.

I’m irritable as all get out. When my son says, Mommy, mommy, mama! I fight back the urge to scream. Why do you need me so much? I need a Mommy, mommy, mama. I want someone to take care of me and cater to my every whim. I just want to be left alone.

Except when I am left alone, I’m still not happy. I get restless. I can’t focus on anything and nothing is enjoyable. So I find myself mindlessly playing stupid computer games, waiting for my son to wake up or my husband to come home to relieve me of my boredom with life.

Except when they are with me, I’m irritable as all get out. And just want to be left alone. But then I am left alone and I’m still not happy…

Fuck.

This is what depression feels like for me. This is what I feel like today. These are the things I usually try to hide from the world.

depression

I get so frustrated when I realize depression has popped up again. I pride myself on being so vigilant and proactive about staying on top of how I feel. The truth is, I have a chronic disease. And sometimes, despite all the self-care and preventative measures I take, it still flares up. Which fucking sucks.

Did you know that depression is often a side effect of other chronic diseases? It’s because living with something you can’t cure or get rid of is frustrating, rage-inducing and sad. So imagine knowing that you’ll never fully get rid of these random sad times. That no matter what you do, or where you are, or who you’re with, there’s always the chance of turning into that person you hate.

Then I snap at my son for asking me to make breakfast two seconds after I told him I would.  He starts crying and I realize what an asshole I am.

When I’m in a flare, the pity party starts. Why can’t I be super fit like those women at the CrossFit Games? Why can’t I write those clever, witty and insightful posts like all those mommy bloggers I follow? I start comparing myself to everyone around me and always fall short. Logic has no home in depression. I can tell myself, you can be super fit too; you’ve done it before! I can point out, you’ve written some great posts! But it doesn’t matter. I can’t see past successes in a current flare.

One of the hardest things about depression is that it’s mental. Nobody would know I was in a flare unless I told them. My husband can tell (poor man puts up with so much from me) but to the outside world, I might just seem a little quieter. Or like nothing’s wrong – I’m pretty good at putting up a good front to the general public. Even if I want help, I generally won’t ask for it. I’ll just sit there and hope someone cares enough to ask how I’m doing, and then hope that I’ll have the balls to admit the truth (my friend Julie wrote an amazing post about what depression won’t let her say several months ago and yes, I do think her writing is better than what I’ve got down here).

I think if I could just sit on my couch all day, staring into space, I would. Basically accomplish nothing except breathing. But I can’t. I have to be a mommy. I have to get us ready to fly home in 2 days. I have to get off my selfish, self-pitying ass and get stuff done. Which in the end might be my saving grace – fake it ‘til you make it. If I force myself to get up and interact with the world, maybe it will make the flare subside. Or maybe I’ll just be miserable while trying desperately not to be mean to my son.

Either way, life must go on.

Infant formula is not poison

Posted in Breastfeeding, Mommy Guilt by

I haven’t written about breastfeeding in quite some time. It hasn’t been a big factor in my life recently, as we weaned in December and I quit my job as lactation consultant in January. I’ve kept a small presence in the online portion of a breastfeeding support group I helped found (just can’t quite let go) and when someone recently equated formula to poison, it ruffled my feathers.

Wait, a lactation consultant who doesn’t think formula is the devil?  (Trust me, we’re out there).

The short answer is no. I do think that formula-feeding moms deserve a product with better ingredients (lose the GMO’s, guys, or at least label that you use them so parents can make informed decisions about what they feed their babies!!). However, infant formula is not a substance that, when introduced into or absorbed by a living organism, causes death or injury, esp. one that kills by rapid action. Nor is it an American butt rock band that gave us such classics as “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” and “Nothin’ But a Good Time.”

Well, why would it bother me if someone else bad-mouths formula?

Because I used to be one of those judgmental assholes and I feel ashamed of my past.

When I was pregnant, I was determined to breastfeed. I knew it was the best option for my baby and I couldn’t believe that everyone else didn’t think the same as me! I railed on and on to my friend who was pregnant at the same time about how I couldn’t imagine mothers not wanting to breastfeed, what’s wrong with them, how could they harm their babies that way. My friend admitted that she might have to formula feed because of a previous breast reduction surgery, and I pitied her. I embodied the stereotype of the militant lactivist.

Then, I had my baby and got to experience the reality of breastfeeding. It’s not easy, and sometimes it’s downright hellish. I started to see why some moms not want to do it, or might not be able to do it, and my rock-solid belief of “breast is best” started to crack a little (along with my nipples). I began to realize I may have been wrong to be so judgmental.

My friend had her baby and told me that she had never planned to breastfeed; she just used the excuse of her breast reduction surgery to placate me. She told me that she felt uncomfortable with so much attention on her breasts and didn’t want to do it, but was worried how I would judge her if she admitted that. I felt like a world class scumbag. Back then, she was one of my best friends. During a time that was so special to both of us (how many people are lucky enough to experience their first pregnancies alongside their best friend?), I ruined some of the excitement with my narrow-minded views. This took those small cracks in my “breast is best” belief and shattered it.

What little pieces of my judgmental self remained were obliterated when I started working as a lactation consultant. I worked in a hospital with around 500 births a year. In the beginning, I know there were a few moms I upset with my reaction to them using formula. This was in part due to the pressure being put on me to produce higher breastfeeding rates, and every mom that used formula cut into that. Thankfully, I quickly realized that numbers were not as important as the moms and babies who represented them. I also realized that it was not my job to shame a mom into breastfeeding, and being disappointed in a mom for using formula was extremely arrogant and inappropriate. To those moms, I apologize.

Though I did help our hospital achieve amazing breastfeeding rates, I feel my most important job was building up moms – especially those for whom breastfeeding was not working out. Moms would show up in my office, exhausted and worn out from a constant merry-go-round of feeding, pumping, supplementing and tearfully admit that they couldn’t do it anymore. They would then break down and sob, proclaiming themselves failures for not being able to breastfeed and for having to use formula. This is usually the part where my heart broke, and I’d often tear up with them. I looked those moms straight in the eye and told them they were good mothers. I told them that the bond between mom and baby was more important than how baby was fed. I told them their babies were going to thrive and be happy, no matter how baby was fed. I told them they were amazing, strong mamas for loving their babies so much. They would look at me in disbelief, with tears in their eyes, and I would keep repeating it until I saw a glimmer of acceptance. I believed it was my job to be one of the lone breastfeeding supporters who could also (gasp!) support moms who didn’t breastfeed.

It’s because of those moms that I bristle when I see someone call formula poison or insinuate that formula-feeding moms are somehow less than breastfeeding moms. Seeing crap like that only rubs salt in those mothers’ wounds. They beat themselves up enough as it is; they don’t need random people spewing garbage like that. I wish I could go back in time and smack my judgmental self on the forehead. If I could, I would then tell her this:

breast or bottle

 

 

How I found my big girl panties in England

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I hit a turning point in my life when I moved to England. It forced me to deal with life on my own, rather than relying on other people in my life to fix things for me.

panties button

When my husband joined the Air Force, the last thing we expected was for him to get stationed in England right after tech school. There went our best-laid plans for me to finish graduate school in Oregon, then join him at his first base. We figured we could handle a cross-country separation; we decided we couldn’t handle a transatlantic separation. So, I changed my plans, worked my tail off and still graduated with the rest of my cohort.

I’m an only child. My parents and I have been through a lot together (suicide attempts, their divorce, their subsequent remarriage…to each other). I’m particularly close to my mom. Anytime I had a problem, she was the first person I’d run to for advice, support or just a shoulder to cry on. It wasn’t so easy to do that when she was 8 time zones away. So, I changed my coping strategies, learned to lean on my husband and found that I had untapped inner strength to support myself.

I stopped drinking alcohol a few years before moving to England. However, I was still in the same environment – same friends, same area, same hangouts, same behaviors. These things allowed me to continue doing whatever I wanted and to hell with what anyone else thought. In England I didn’t have those crutches, so when I continued my compulsive behaviors, they multiplied and exploded in my face. So, I screwed things up royally, asked for help and came out the other side, shaken but still alive.

All of these things may have happened had we never moved overseas. However, I think that being away from my comfort zone, away from everything familiar, helped speed things up. I didn’t realize how much I had changed until we moved back to the states. Everything felt familiar, yet awkward. I found that I had to use GPS to navigate a city I used to know like the back of my hand. I still have to remind myself that I can communicate with friends and family without setting up Skype dates and figuring out what time it is where they are at. I’m having trouble relating to old friends. Coming back to America wasn’t the “coming home” I’d imagined.

And, I’m ok with that. I love the person I’m becoming. I love this inner strength I’ve found because I’m finally making healthy decisions. Moving to England helped me to finally grow up and put my big girl panties on. I like how they fit.

This post is part of Finish the Sentence Friday, hosted by Janine at Confessions of a Mommyaholic, Dawn of Dawn’s Disasters, Kate from Can I Get Another Bottle of Whine? and Stephanie from Mommy, For Real. Check them out!

Hotel livin’

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Today is the one month anniversary of our family being reunited!

Happy military family

Happy military family

My husband is in the Air Force. Right now, he is in technical training at Wright Patterson AFB (Ohio) to learn his new job. He used to work on the weapon system of the F-15; after this, he will be in bioenvironmental engineering. We are so excited, because this job is off the flightline and will have regular working hours. In his previous job, he’d work a minimum of 50 hours a week, reporting for work at 0700 and getting home between 1730-1900. It was hard to have any family time during the week, because he’d get home right at the baby’s bedtime. Also, he’d be so tired from his long workday turning wrenches and pushing boxes of tools that he wouldn’t feel like doing much. But we had the weekends, right? Uh, no. He’d often work, and we could rarely make long-term plans because of the threat of them being cancelled at the last-minute. It was a pretty rough 3.5 years.

This new job will be so much better. I’ve talked to the wife of one of his soon-to-be coworkers at Dyess AFB. She says they work 0730-1630 and rarely, if ever, work weekends. He’ll get an hour for lunch (previous job: no set lunch time) and time to work out (previous job: fit it in on your few off hours). We are so looking forward to our new life in Texas, which starts after he graduates next week.

For the first two months of his schooling, Colt and I stayed with family in Portland. I did a Certified Nursing Assistant (CNA) course to fulfill a requirement of the nursing program I plan to apply to next year. The day I finished that, Colt and I hopped a plane to join Bryce in Ohio. He’s been staying in Visiting Quarters, which is a fancy term for a small hotel room. Or suite, I suppose, since technically we have two rooms. Two adults + 1 toddler + 1 small hotel suite? Oh boy…

hotel living

Let me take you on a small tour of our deluxe accommodations at Wright Patterson Air Force base.

Our main living space, which encompasses the kitchen/dining/living area, is 23.5 Sara feet long by 11 Sara feet wide (my foot is a women’s 8.5, if that helps). This was taken from the door, looking in:

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Messy, but that’s normal

The toddler is watching the TV that is on top of the dresser. To the right, by the gorgeous burnt orange velour couch, is a desk. This is also known as my son’s play room/pooping area.

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Multi-use space

The doorway you barely saw on the left leads to our bedroom and the only bathroom. Let me tell you, nothing sucks worse than putting the toddler down for a nap and then realizing you have to pee. I often debate whether it’s worse to wake the toddler or pee my pants. I think we have a queen-sized bed. Still too small for 2 adults and a wild toddler, though it’s a definite upgrade from the full-size bed we three usually rock.

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Stuffed animals holding it down

My biggest complaint is the kitchen, or lack thereof.

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Kitchen/pantry/random junk

It came with a microwave, we purchased a hot plate and one pan, and a friend of a friend graciously loaned us a crock pot. No dishwasher and the only sink is in the bathroom (thank God I’m not a germaphobe), so I avoid getting too crazy with my cooking. It’s been a challenge to eat healthy like this, but we’re hanging in there. My absolute least favorite “feature” of this room is this:

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I love you, I hate you

Whoever invented this single serve coffee machine should be forced to watch Barney for hours on end. I can’t purchase my own coffee for it, so I’m completely at the mercy of the housekeepers to restock it everyday. They only give 4 at a time, which I can easily go through on a normal day (God help us on the bad days). I’m constantly hiding the “No Service” sign from my husband because he doesn’t like people coming in and messing with our stuff. I say, mess away (and leave extra coffee).

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I’ve turned into a hoarder

Before we arrived, I was a little concerned how well it was going to go with so many people living in one small space. While it hasn’t all been peachy keen, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I’d be happy anywhere, as long as my boys were with me. I wouldn’t trade this for the world.

Love reunited...and stealing noses

Love reunited…and stealing noses

It’s not Love, Actually

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“To Me, You Are Perfect.” [Andrew Lincoln's sign for Keira Knightley in the film Love Actually]

Sigh. If only something like this would happen to me at some point. In fact, I would just love to live in the world of Love Actually. The characters are impossibly charming, have great British accents, work at hip jobs that apparently pay a lot because they all live in horridly expensive London, and, best of all – they all get their happy ending.

This movie delves into the love between man and woman, man and unrequited crush, parent and child, sister and brother, husband and wife, sex fiend and Americans, boss and underling – but the one love I wish it resolved was that between best friends. Because then I could find the answer to my real-life problem in my favorite movie.

It’s funny, because my best friend introduced me to this movie and it’s one way we bonded. All I have to say is, “Hi!” and she’d dissolve in giggles, picturing the exact scene in the movie that kills us both. We have whole sets of dialogue memorized and can watch it over and over. Well, we used to anyway – when we were speaking to each other.

She and I had been friends for almost 15 years. We met while working at a coffee shop and bonded over our mutual disdain for our overly demanding boss (seriously, who hides gum behind the toilet to make sure we’re cleaning back there every. single. day). Later, I went to work for her at a different coffee shop and then moved in when I needed a place to live and she needed a new roommate. She introduced me to her circle of friends and I let her use my employee discount at the clothing store I worked. When I moved four hours away, we kept the friendship up and actually became closer.

She was two years older than me and a wonderful big sister to this only child. She did my hair and makeup before we went out. She was generous with her clothes and accessories. She scolded me when I acted inappropriately and dried my tears when I was hurt. She gave me tough love when I needed it and always encouraged me to accept God’s grace. She was my maid of honor and the first person I called after having my baby. It’s hard to imagine a life without her in it.

So, what killed this friendship? Time, distance, change, lack of care. I moved to England and for 3.5 years our communication was spotty. We’d talk on the phone every few months and each time swear we’d keep in better contact. Facebook kept us updated on the day to day, but not stay connected. The cracks started to appear when I missed her wedding. I was willing to fly back to the United States just for that weekend and would have – if only her wedding wasn’t the same weekend my husband was due home from a 5-month deployment. I had to put my husband first in this situation, and it really hurt her. I was upset that she didn’t understand – I wanted to so badly to be there, but couldn’t (and didn’t want to) miss his homecoming. I tried to make it up to her by surprising her with a live Skype toast at the reception and recording a message just in case the Internet connection failed. We eventually moved on from it, but it shook us.

The year following her wedding was extremely eventful for me. I made a lot of bad decisions and my husband I almost divorced several times. I hit rock bottom, contemplated suicide and found myself in positions I never thought I’d be in. I couldn’t tell anyone back home what was going on. It was nothing I wanted to share over Skype or telephone. So, I retreated into myself and my family. I gave vague details to my inner circle, but focused more on the work I was doing to heal. And I did start to heal.

My method of healing came at a price, though. When I moved back to the United States, I was so excited to see my best friend. I hadn’t seen her in almost 3 years and she had never met my son. She came up to visit and we finally got to have a long overdue heart-to-heart. I believe it was that heart-to-heart that killed the friendship. I didn’t know it, but she was extremely anxious about seeing me that weekend. Had I known that, I might not have dropped the ton of bricks on her that I did. I don’t think she was prepared to hear all of the things I told her.

After I dropped all my bombshells, things were awkward. I didn’t know what she was thinking and tried to give her space to process. However, it was eating at me. Finally I laid out my concerns to her in an email and waited to hear back. Again I tried to give her space, but must have pushed too much. We argued and shot angry texts back and forth, and a few weeks later I got the answer to my email. It was clear we were on completely different plains. She didn’t understand me, and I didn’t understand her.

I could fight for the friendship, but to be honest, I’m not sure I want to. Just writing that hurts and I feel like a jerk. What is wrong with me? Why wouldn’t I want to do my best to patch things up? A part of me thinks I should, just because of the history we share. But it’s not my job to patch things up – it’s our job. I can’t control what she thinks/feels/does; I can only control me. Right now, I don’t want anyone in my inner circle who doesn’t “get” me. I don’t feel like she “gets” me anymore, so I think it’s best if I back off for now. A good friend reminded me that sometimes there isn’t a wrong or right in a situation; it just is. I think that’s where we’re at.

What I feel now is sadness. I’m sad that I didn’t give her a chance to get to know the “new” me. I’m sad she won’t be a part of my day-to-day life. I’m sad that the memories of our good times now come with a twinge of pain in my chest. Time will tell if this is a break or a break-up; I’m ready to let time do its job. But I’m still sad.

strangers with memories

And I’ll always hold this movie dear to my heart, because it’s something I shared with her.

Today I’m linking up with the amazing ladies at