No good comes from blogging after midnight
Posted by Heather O. | May 16, 2012 | 6 Comments
Last night I read something on the interwebs that got my gander up. I won’t go into specifics, but generally speaking, somebody chose to describe her personal experiences using language that I found to be overly dramatic, and inappropriate to the level of hardship. I’ve heard her phrasology ascribed to other, more worthy hardships, including some of the trials I myself have faced. Certainly HER trial is not the level of hardship of MY trials, and she dared to use the same language!!!
The nerve. Read more
Ambivalence
Posted by Melissa Y. | May 15, 2012 | 7 Comments
(a poem for Facebook)
Words slip from the screen,
winding me in threads of text,
binding mind and feeling.
Fumbling at the brisk
pace of caring,
I scroll through worlds—
loss, laughter, lunch on Tuesday,
silent strings of detail that
glisten outward
and by gossamer connection
I am both secured and sliced,
life left as ribbons
in my hand.
Sacrificing the Mother’s Day Martyr
Posted by Shelah | May 14, 2012 | 9 Comments
I’ve been a mother for thirteen Mother’s Days, and most of them have been crappy. Ed seemed to either be working or out of town for about five years in a row. The books he got me were never what I would have picked for myself. And the children acted like, well, children. I’d invariably go to bed on Mother’s Day feeling more frustrated and unappreciated than I did on any other day of the year. I dreamed of being one of those women who send their husbands and kids off to church and lie in bed all day reading or watching movies on Mother’s Day, or else one of the women whose families shower them with jewelry and dresses and breakfast in bed and perfect desserts.
In my house, neither one of those is going to happen. Not anytime soon, at least. I have five little kids, and a husband who, once again, had to work this year on Mother’s Day.
But this year was going to be different; I was determined to have a good Mother’s Day, no matter what. Read more
In Defense of Mother’s Day
Posted by Guest | May 13, 2012 | 13 Comments
Wife, mother, writer, sister, friend, Ruth Mitchell lives in the golden San Diego hills, plans the best parties and tells fantastic bedtime stories.
Mother’s day dawns and the women are grumbling. Most of the women I know don’t particularly like Mother’s Day. Growing up my mom hated Mother’s Day. She would sit in church and hear sermons in which old men talk about their dead saintly mothers who inevitably never raised their voice. And then on the drive home from church my mom would remind us that the only thing she wanted for Mother’s Day was for us kids to get along which was asking way too much. We’d quarrel more than ever and my mom would raise her voice, leaving her feeling even more guilty than she did in church. My mother-in-law cried most Mother’s Day’s because her mom was dead.
I too have had Mother’s days where I’ve wondered about the holiday. I remember as a young mom trying to host my mom or mother-in-law for Mother’s day and at the end of day feeling frazzled and not too appreciated. There’s a long list of other reasons women might not like holiday: she is not a mom and wants to be one, she is a mom and does not want to be one, her kids are failures and she blames herself, her children are successes and have moved far away, she doesn’t get a long with her mom, she adores her mom but her mom is dead or living far away, no one appreciates her. But probably the biggest reason women don’t like mother’s day is guilt. Like my mom most women seem to compare themselves to an unrealistic ideal and fall short.
A lot of women just skip church on Mother’s Day. Some congregations try to downplay Mother’s Day. I have a friend who was asked to speak on Mother’s Day the topic was prayer. She was told there would be no special musical number, it would be just like any other Sunday. At some point in my life I might have thought downplaying or eliminating Mother’s Day was a good idea. But right now even as the approach of Mother’s Day gives me a heavy heart and dreams of my dead mother, I’m looking forward to a day devoted to reflection on motherhood. I’m in awe of mothers.
As a young woman I did not think much of mother’s. They were dowdy women who drove mini-vans and talked about nothing but their kids. Then I became a mom. I had no idea–no idea the courage, sacrifice and love that beat in the hearts of those dowdy women driving mini-vans. Each stage of raising my kids has been revelatory. Mothers get up in the middle of the night and clean up poo or vomit or both and then gently put children back in bed. Mothers go with out eating, mothers gain weight. Mothers stay up late waiting for a child, mothers get up early to drive to seminary. Mothers drive children everywhere. Mothers clean, harder still mothers teach children to clean. Mothers pray for children adrift, mothers yearn for children on missions. Mothers listen to long mind-numbing incoherent play by play accounts of video games.
I am currently in the trenches of Motherhood and I have seen some amazing things. I’ve seen a single mother work back to back shifts through the night to provide for her family. I’ve seen mothers pushed into depression as their children grow up, move out and move on. I’ve seen mothers helplessly watch on as their children suffer divorce or cancer or both. I’ve watched gentle quiet women deal with the perplexing problem of angry uncontrollable toddlers. I’ve watched women torture their bodies with hormones and procedures all in the hope of becoming a mother. Almost every woman I know holds some heart ache because she loves (or wants to love) a child so much. I think of this heartache as a mother’s heart.
There is a scripture I love in which God gives Enoch a glimpse into His heart. And seeing this the prophet’s heart like God’s “swelled as wide as eternity; and his bowls yearned: and all eternity shook.” (Moses 7:41) As wide as eternity–the perfect description of a mother’s heart. No wonder so many women cry on Mother’s Day.
Mothers are courageous enough to make their hearts vulnerable. I remember driving home from the hospital with my fourth child and thinking what will happen to this child? And knowing that no matter what even if he makes perfect choices and lives to a ripe old age, that loving this child will bring me heartache. One more person to love, one more person to miss, to worry about, to mourn. Each person we let into our hearts, our hearts swell wider. No wonder women’s hearts are so tender.
So we need to be gentle with each other on Mother’s Day and our selves–not compare or dwell in guilt. But acknowledge the beauty of self-sacrificing women. Mother’s day is a day to be in awe of the miracle of mothers–that walking on this earth (or driving mini-vans) are women whose hearts swell as wide as eternity.
A Letter for My Daughter, Ruby
Posted by Guest | May 13, 2012 | 8 Comments
Today’s guest post is from Chelsey, who has neither hot nor cold feelings for Mothers Day; although, she sometimes wishes that more women spoke in church on that day. She thinks they would be more interesting and less inclined to make it all rainbows and unicorns. She does understand the desire to give women the day off, so it’s a toss up. Chelsey has been a mother for seven, lightening-fast years, and still, apparently, has a lot to learn. She blogs at: http://www.penelopespad.
Dear Ruby,
I am the 1st Counselor in our ward’s Young Women Presidency. Last week I went to a fireside. While I was gone, you broke your arm. Unable to get a hold of me, your Dad prepared to take you, your three younger brothers and your sister to the emergency room.
A couple from our ward walked by as he was getting you all in the car, and offered to watch the other kids. Your Dad was free to take just you, and I relieved them when I got home.
This couple now adores you and your little brothers and sister because of the service they gave to us.
This week, after you go to bed and are sleeping, I will: visit teach three sisters, organize and attend a combined activity for the Young Men and Young Women, and go to a stake leadership meeting.
I hate it because I was gone last week when you were hurt, and now I will be gone again. Read more
broken
Posted by Guest | May 12, 2012 | 6 Comments
It’s my turn to write today (Michelle L.) but I want to share these words from my friend Martha with you instead. Our mother hearts stretch as wide as the universe and are as fragile as a tuft of dandelion seeds.
My father calls and wants to know when I will write. Often.
And I’ve talked of vacillation before. Yesterday the sky was perfectly blue. This morning was grey, but wait! Now again, it is blue with swirly white strands of cottony clouds. Last night I had very little sleep which lends itself to a morning of need. Yesterday, I was a tinge frightened by the apathy I felt toward the (necessary) dependence I should feel on my Creator. And so as I approach Mother’s Day I take an assessment. (Really, always, everyday.) One of my children breaks me. Every single day. And it has always been. From the day she was born I was broken, and I am just not sufficient enough. Every morning we do the same dance, and I think: Really? Really? It is like some kind of SNL skit. At some point I think it must improve, but it doesn’t. And I fall flat. And there it is, this hardness, a difficulty that is really more than me. Sometimes I think back on former episodes of my life. And about change. About times when the Lord’s grace seemed to bubble over from inside and change seemed to take place quickly. But I am on no fast track now. I am slow to learn, I find myself often confused. But when in the right place the question arises: have you felt to sing the song of redeeming love? And I have! I have! The Lord’s love and grace is about change. And when I come to Him with my broken pieces (over and over) and childish questions (because I am such a child) I am never condemned, there is never a Really? Really? And this grace defines. It defines people as God’s children. By love and not by their sins. And not by mine. And so tomorrow I will try again (and the next day). And I know I will keep coming up short. I don’t know what this will mean, for my daughter or for me or for anyone else. But every hardness I’ve encountered has been a gift, a treasure that has brought me steps closer to my Savior.
Dear student, I’m sorry you missed the point
Posted by Sarita | May 11, 2012 | 10 Comments
I finished grading final exams from my first-year college composition students. One of them, chemistry major, said this:
Having a science background, I realized that writing is much like a science experiment. Writing relates to a science experiment because with practice, you can only get better and better results. This is exactly what happened with me in this class. It has shown me that revision and editing are two totally different things and that they are both necessary steps to take while writing an exemplary paper…
Then there was this one, written by—ha ha—another chemistry major:
Someone once said “Before the final, your semester flashes before your eyes.” Whoever said that is definitely full of crap because it never happened. I believe that I performed a lot of busy work this semester during writing 106. My chemistry professor always says “practice makes perfect” so I tend to do countless practice problems in preparation for my chemistry exams. This method has yet to fail me, and I have learned a lot in chemistry this semester. Going into Writing 106 I thought I was going to be practicing writing a lot. This was not the case. During the entire course, by my count we did just one essay. While we did write a few things, we wrote just one paper, so if the purpose of this course was to help me become a better writer then I don’t think it succeeded. If the purpose of the course was to make me do a ton of work to earn 3 credits and a letter, then I congratulate whoever created the curriculum.
This was really annoying, for several reasons:
a) We wrote a lot this semester (six major pieces, to be exact)
b) Student often demonstrated an inability to follow directions
c) Student made fun of my MacBook the one day it froze in class, whereupon he chided me for not having a PC, then the following week he brought in his brand new iPad
d) I didn’t turn off the lights and read from a power point screen the whole semester—and I brought cookies on peer review days!
e) I think he was confusing “Someone” with Terry Pratchett, who said, “ your life flashes before your eyes just before you die.”
As a teacher, I sometimes take comments like this student’s as a reflection of my failure as a human being. So I moped around for five minutes. And then, because he was the only one, out of 70 students, who thought the class was stupid, I thought of “Dreamsong 14,” in which the speaker confesses to be bored by EVERYTHING, ALL THE TIME. The speaker’s mother tells him that only people without “inner resources”—abilities to tease out what is personally, individually meaningful and useful from life experiences—are bored.
My response was apologetic: “Dear Student, I’m sorry you missed the point of the course, and that you have no inner resources.”
I disliked several of my college classes too, but I like to think the difference between me and this student is that I recognized when it was my fault—for being unprepared, for not paying attention, for not having slept the night before, for being distracted by thoughts about whether I wanted chicken or salmon at my wedding reception, etc.
But later I felt grateful for this student’s griping because he helped me think a little bit harder about my own life, and how I am more like him than I think. Sometimes, I forget to use my inner resources to make the most of a situation. I let this happen most often at church. When I think the talks are boring, or on fast Sundays, when I brace myself for the same people who always march up to the podium and ramble, or sound pedantic, or talk about soy beans, and I tell myself it’s okay to zone out. And then Elder Donald L. Hallstrom’s most recent General Conference address reminded me that it’s not okay to zone out when he said, “President Spencer W. Kimball was once asked, ‘What do you do when you find yourself in a boring sacrament meeting?’ His response: ‘I don’t know. I’ve never been in one.’”
Clearly, making the most of inner resources is a divine attribute. One I know I should cultivate more carefully so that on fast Sundays, I’m learning something from everyone—I could learn more about courage from the people who are brave enough to stand up every time on fast Sunday; I could pay attention to the speakers reading verbatim from the Ensign for 25 minutes and listen for principles that apply to my life; I could start a church journal, like a friend in another ward who weekly writes down what she learns from the lessons in all three hours of church.
There are lots of things I could do to make the most of my time and resources, not just at church, but at home, when I’m babysitting someone else’s children all day and wishing 5 pm would come sooner, when I’m talking to new people, or when I’m with people I love. I just have to remember that it’s not too much to ask.
What silly things do your students/children/relatives/coworkers say to betray the dysfunction of inner resources? How do you deal with this? How have you learned to recognize when it’s you and not someone else? How do you make the most of every situation? Tell me your stories!
Love and lanyards
Posted by Annie | May 10, 2012 | 17 Comments
Mother’s Day is on its way. I know it’s a loaded weekend for many women, with layers of complicated emotions and expectations and reminders. I understand. Even so, I thought I’d tiptoe into the minefield to share one of my favorite pieces of writing on the subject. Enjoy:
The Lanyard
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy lightand taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truththat you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.~Billy Collins, from his collection The Trouble with Poetry (you can watch him read this poem himself here)
Happy Mother’s Day, mothers and motherers. Here’s to us and our imperfect, sincere, and well-meaning mothering. And here’s to the imperfect, sincere, and well-meaning token offerings in return.
. . .
What do you understand about your mother now that you didn’t back when you were young?
What are your favorite “lanyard” offerings you’ve either given or received?
Of Bigfoot and Cross-dressing
Posted by Hannah | May 9, 2012 | 6 Comments
The newsroom was bustling one day when an average looking man walked in and asked if we purchased photos from the public.
Someone pointed him to the editor, who asked how she could help him.
“I have a picture of Bigfoot,” he said.
My back was turned on the conversation, but I covered my mouth as I desperately tried to choke the laughter back down. My colleague glared at me as tears threatened to spill out of my eyes.
The man patiently explained to our editor how he found Bigfoot, and that he thought it was something we might be interested in. The photo was on his cell phone, a blur of green and brown, and didn’t look like much.
Our editor told him the photo wasn’t large enough to publish in the paper, so she’d have to say no. The man understood, politely said thank you and walked away.
Then the other day another person walked in, wanted to see our editor. Tall socks, shorty-shorts, a fitted t-shirt, long white hair and a pink baseball cap could only mean one thing: A cross-dressing man. And a war veteran, at that.
He walked by and a sour stink lingered in the air. His legs were crossed, his hands perched on his knees as he relentlessly ranted to my editor about one veteran issue or another.
My editor tried to satisfy his concerns without success, and eventually ushered him out of her office and on his way.
I have to admit I got a lot of amusement over observing these two men. Neither of them seemed to be aware that they were socially awkward or “unacceptable.”
But then I thought, do I push those boundaries? The answer is probably yes. Sometimes I pick wedgies at inappropriate times. I’ve been known to ask strangers to hold their babies. And I awkwardly cough when I’m nervous. Who am I to judge weird?
What are your Bigfoot photos or cross-dressing moments? How do you push social standards and expectations? How do you define “normal”? How do you define “weird”?
No Mosquitoes Allowed
Posted by Sandra | May 8, 2012 | 17 Comments
As I sit here to write I realize I have just been some pest’s late night snack. Some mosquito has secreted his way into the house and hung around long enough until I was convenient and then stole a quick draw from my upper arm. I reach to scratch almost involuntarily, then notice the pink blotchy welt on my skin. Dang it, I’ve been bit again.
I know it is not polite manners to brag about your natural gifts, abilities and assets. But somehow I don’t feel the least bit superior about this one: I am irresistible. To bugs. I have some innate, inborn magnetism that draws biting and blood sucking insects toward me. I know it is not my stunning looks or winning personality; I am certainly not offering my best self to those dang bugs. I am forever swatting at them, and scowling at my most recent, itchiest bite. Read more
Hypocrisy and You
Posted by Jennie | May 3, 2012 | 26 Comments
The topic of hypocrisy has been coming up in conversations again and again lately. In particular I spoke to an old college roommate about four months ago. She is a single mom and not all that interested in taking her two kids to church; too many hypocrites, she says. Oh, how we all hate hypocrites: those terrible people who preach one thing and do another!
My old roommate’s testimony is in a fragile state right now so I didn’t tell her the truth: she is a hypocrite. I am a hypocrite. We are all hypocrites. No, wait, that’s not quite true. The definition of hypocrisy is to pretend to believe something that we don’t actually believe. But it commonly means saying one thing, doing another. Of which we are all guilty.
I tell my children they must eat five fruits and veg every day. I have not eaten fruits and veg today. Or yesterday. I am a hypocrite.
I stood up in church last month and told everyone how Visiting Teaching is the most important calling and needs to be our #1 priority. I didn’t do my visiting teaching that month. I am a hypocrite.
I get mad if my husband throws his cans and bottles in the trash instead of the recycling bin. Yesterday at the gas station I threw three empty water bottles in the garbage can. I am a hypocrite.
Tags: church is hypocritical > don't go to church because its full of hypocrites
Curl, Interrupted
Posted by Brooke | May 2, 2012 | 20 Comments
Let’s talk about my hair.
Its been a topic of conversation my entire life. Beginning when I was born completely bald till now, when people comment on my younger daughter’s delicate tangle of almost-curls by saying, “She has your hair!” And I will correct them with a simple, “No she doesn’t. When I was her age I had a ‘fro.” No exaggerations here, it was a legitimate Afro piled atop my head—it grew out, not down. Read more
Language of the Tribe
Posted by Karen | April 30, 2012 | 23 Comments
Photo by LucastheExperience
It was just after dark. I had parked my rental car at the local Mormon church so that I could talk on the cell phone with my husband back in West Virginia. I wanted to share with him my house-hunting efforts in Kansas. I was mid-sentence when someone pointed a flashlight at me through the driver’s side window. I shielded my eyes from the light. Squinting, I saw a mature gentleman—tall and thin, sporting a baseball cap, glasses, jean jacket, and plaid shirt. I rolled down my window and sheepishly bid him “Good evening.” He then began to interrogate me subtly, trying to determine if I had a legitimate reason for being on church property.
BRIEFLY
Posted by Lisa G. | April 28, 2012 | 14 Comments
One of our brilliant Segullah editors shared a poem with our staff recently that had us all grieving for the sorrow of the world, but also brought out our collective fierce resolve to “risk delight” in the face of such sorrow. Here is Brittney’s story and the poem. Read more
Tags: adversity > happiness > joy > mourning with those that mourn > Poetry > sorrow > trials
Mommy the Hypocrite
Posted by Jessie | April 27, 2012 | 26 Comments
My little boy is turning six in a month, and for at least six months I’ve been hearing all about the Angry Birds cupcakes he wants for his birthday party. Every time he mentions Angry Birds I change the subject. I don’t like Angry Birds. I don’t want Angry Birds at his birthday. In fact, I don’t even understand why he likes them so much. I don’t own any sort of smart phone or other similar device and I’m pretty sure my son has never actually played the game. We don’t own a video game system and my kids don’t watch any television, so my son’s fixation on the latest craze is baffling, and frankly a little irritating to me. No matter how much I want to keep my children’s childhood commercial free, those stupid little birds are plastered all over everything. Even my two-year-old brightens up when she sees them and chirps “Angry Birds!” Read more
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Segullah Sampler of Blogs
- Kimba » First, and a last
- Momza's House » Determination
- Dandelion Mama » First Ever Family Photo Shoot
- I'm stil cool . . . er . . .right? » Ford Flex
- MORMON SOPRANO » Faith Is Like A Little Seed
- Keepapitchinin, the Mormon History blog » A Daughter of Martha: Chapter 8
- Keepapitchinin, the Mormon History blog » The Ventors’ Adventures, 1958-59: Part 9
- Sue's News, Views 'n Muse » Don't Forget to Fly
- Scravings » Progress on the Franklin Front
- Mormon Mentality » The Complexity of Women (or, how NOT to further the boredom of Mother’s Day)
Click here our page of selected recent posts by LDS women around the web, with excerpts.
Footnotes
- Not to be missed, go forth and read.
- How to Miss a Childhood
- When Mama Breaks the Rules
- Deaths and Rebirths: part 1
- Single Mothers, Stand Proud
- Area Men Recover From Mother’s Day
- My Mother’s Day Talk
- Stephanie Nielson Has Fifth Miracle Baby
- How to Talk to Kids About Porn (h/t Times&Seasons)
- I won’t condemn her or praise her. I will not stoop to the level of pretending that we are so unidimensional that we can be divided by a lifestyle choice.
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