Category Archives: Motherhood

Reflections On General Conference

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Semi-annual and annual General Conference is a touchstone each April and October. As I turn on the computer and tune in to prophet’s messages, I find myself reflecting on where we were six months ago, a year ago, two years ago.

Three years ago, on a Sunday morning, I was in labor. I awoke at 3 a.m. Melbourne time, finally waking Ryan up at 5 a.m., just as the morning session of Saturday conference was beginning (or ending?) in Salt Lake City. I watched the majority of the session on the internet as I curled up in laboring ball on the bed and as I paced the bedroom back and forth. I was not feeling very well and I don’t remember much, but I do remember Elder Cook was called that session. I got through most of the session, then we called our parents and told them we were headed to the hospital. A few hours later (at 3:13 p.m. Melbourne time), Paul was born, just about midnight in the USA.

Two years ago, Paul celebrated his first birthday at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. I turned on my computer and we watched it on my little screen in my parent’s family room. Paul was a new walker, happy to giggle and play with toys and listen to the songs. He was very tired when we had birthday cake in between sessions.

Last October, we had invited some friends to come to our house for dinner and conference. But then Ryan and I and Paul were a bit sick and we canceled. I don’t recall that we really watched much. We were sick a year ago April, too. I know because we had invited the same friends and had to cancel. Ah well, some years are more memorable than others. I don’t think it was very memorable with toddler-Paul.

This year, Paul gets it. He recognized the prophet and I borrowed Frank and Elizabeth’s idea and had a few key words we are listening for: Temples, the Book of Mormon, and Prophets. When he heard each one he would get to put a sticker on the page. He lasted through a bit of each conference and even when he’d be playing with his toys and we’d think he wasn’t listening, he’d suddenly stop and say, “Alma in the Book of Mormon! I get a Book of Mormon sticker!” And he’d stop playing to put a sticker (or three) on the Book of Mormon page.

This is a testimony to me that it is never too young to give full attention and expectation on your kids. They are listening to the prophet even when you may not think so. Beyond that, they recognize the spirit and the mantle on the shoulders of those who have been called.

It was a few months ago that, at a baptism, Paul saw the Bishop on the side of the room and said, with barely contained excitement, “Mommy! Look! It’s that guy!!!”

“Oh, do you see the Bishop?” I asked. Our bishop is not very outgoing and talkative unless he has a reason to be, so I was quite surprised that Paul had noticed the Bishop as someone special. But, seeing it as a good opportunity, I walked him over, had him shake the Bishop’s hand, and told Paul that the Bishop was special because he was called of God to serve the ward.

Ever since then, Paul has always been very, very excited to see the Bishop, and always wants to shake his hand. At another baptism last month, he saw the Bishop and I again walked him over to shake the Bishop’s hand.

“Yes, it’s the Bishop!” I said.

The Bishop heard me. “One of many,” he responded.

“But the only one of our ward.” I said. I told him how I was sure Paul had a testimony of his calling as Bishop. He got tears in his eyes.

Yes, our children have the spirit. They know.

Reflections On Being a Stay-at-Home Mom

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When I picked Paul up from preschool, day 1, I realized that I have loved being a part of his every moment since his birth. I have been able to always know what he does, what he says, what he learns. Even when I didn’t want to, I have cared for the inner workings of his body, from his ear wax to his bowel movements (is it not so?). His life has been an intricate part of my life for three years.

From now on, from the moment I drop him off at preschool until I pick him up, there are regular hours of the week that I am not a part of. He’ll say cute things that I’ll never hear. He will have fun activities that I’ll never hear about. He will fall down and hurt himself and cry, let’s hope learning how to calm himself (he’s rather sensitive about “owies”). He will take care of his own toileting needs. And that is how it should be.

Being a stay-at-home mom has its share of ups and downs. I have not loved everything in the past three years and I have my own short fuse for certain annoyances. But it was important for me to send him off to school. I’ll better appreciate the time we do spend together. He has long realized he’s distinct from me, and I need to do a better job of letting go and living my life without following his every movement. I have to trust that I’ve taught him what he needs to get along in the world, and when we are together those are the things I need to make sure I’ll teach him.

In a Relief Society meeting on motherhood a few months ago, the teacher talked about how all six of her children live far away from her. She is sad because she doesn’t see her children and grandchildren as often as she’d like but she can see from associating with them from a distance that she knows has succeeded as a mother in teaching her children to be independent, happy, and well-adjusted in the world, despite the fact that they are so far away from her.

My job as a mother is to help Paul to learn what he needs to learn to be his own person like that, from developing his own testimony to coping with the physical and emotional challenges that come. What an honor that I can do so full-time, and I’m glad to see him branching out on his own, even though it makes me sad just a little bit.

Reflections On Paul’s Third Birthday

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Paul is so old. He has not had a toilet accident in more than a week (and only two or three bed wettings in that time, trust me that’s an improvement over last week since he has insisted on wearing underpants and not pull-ups even to bed). He’s beginning to say “I’ll do it all by myself.” He wakes himself up in the night to go potty. He asks to use a “big boy plate” at dinner and at least one meal a day I give him a cup that is not a sippy cup and he does not spill.

I have just tucked him in to bed after a very fun third birthday. I gave myself a rule this morning that I wouldn’t let myself be distracted by the chores (Thursday is normally my clean the whole house day) or blogging (I like to blog on Rebecca Reads far more than here, if you haven’t noticed) or reading my novel (sometimes I admit that a novel is in my hand as I play with him. It’s amazing how much one can read in the in-between moments every day).

No, instead, today was his day. I gave him my undivided attention. Even as I cooked dinner (his favorite and his request, Cream of Pumpkin Soup), I was still giving him attention as much as I could. And it made for day of delight. I’m just as tired as the toddler, since we played his new Busytown Game for five hours (it requires crawling from one side of the six-foot game board to the other through the course of one game) so I know such one-on-one time is not doable every day. But it was so nice to enjoy my son thoroughly.

I absolutely loved the newborn stage. I loved that I was able to cuddle him constantly and no one tried to take him away from me and I didn’t want to let anyone take him away from me (I was not yet burned out, I suppose). I loved that only I could nurse him. He needed his mother regularly through the day and it was such a special time, even in the middle of the night as we dosed off together. I loved that he was innocent and learning how to control his arms, his legs, his head. Everything was so wonderful about newborn Paul. Even the spit-up I didn’t mind so much as Daddy did.

I haven’t loved the other stages. Once he started to crawl and walk and talk, I found myself wondering why I’d been so excited for those milestones. I didn’t like his inability to communicate and his out-of-control self, even as he thought he could do things. But now, in the past few weeks, I feel Paul has crossed a new milestone and I love this one. This new age, age three, the preschool years, is a remarkable one. My parenting book, which I haven’t looked at for probably two years but recently referred to, calls the twos the “terrible twos” and the threes and fours the “magical years.”

I can really see his world becoming “magical”.  He still cannot control his emotions very well (especially at the end of the day, when he’s been up for the full 12 hours) and he certainly has his opinions on what he wants to be doing and what he wants me to do (“come play with me, Mommy! Right! NOW!”) But suddenly he has imaginary friends, he gets wide-eyed as I tell him fairy tales, and he asks questions and tells stories about the past, present, and future. He’s putting things together, and learning at an exponential rate. He reads his numbers, one to 13; he knows the phonics of every letter, although he doesn’t read words yet; he knows right from left; he knows both of his parents names; and we’re almost there on his phone number. (If I tell it to him, he knows it is his phone number, and if I stop part way through he can finish it, usually).

Today we were driving and he was calling out the numbers on speed limit signs.

“4!5!” he said.

“Yes, that’s 45,” I replied, turning left on to a side road.

“3!0!” he exclaimed.

“Is 30 slower or faster than 45?” I asked.

“Slower” he said, noting the slowed speed of the car.

“Yes! 30 is a lower number than 45, so 30 miles per hour is slower than 45 miles per hour.” We played with our basket of apples when we got home and talked about how three apples is less than four apples. And two and one are both less than three. He doesn’t really get it (well, he probably did for a moment but has already forgotten) but it was so fun to see that the he’s learning and that we can talk about real things. The world is magical, but he’s learning that it can also be explained if he just learns how.

I can’t wait to see where we go in the next year.

Happy birthday, Raisin!

Joy in Womanhood

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I’ve written a dozen of posts in my head and I’ve started a few posts for this site and yet somehow they never get posted! Any internet time I’ve found has gone to my public blog, where for many reasons, I am not going to post my innermost personal thoughts. Here are some concepts that I’ve been pondering for a long time, and much like all the other things I’ve wanted to share lately (and never have), it involves my testimony.

Lately, I’ve felt like rejoicing in being a woman. As a woman, I know my role and it is a wonderful one. In so many places in the world, I am told that I am the same as a man, that accepting (and purporting) a gender-specific role to be a nurturer is a demeaning thing for women, and that women should “aim higher” and not be limited or taught to be any different than men. I wholeheartedly disagree, especially that ignoring female-specific gender roles is “aiming higher.” Women, and girls, should nurture gender-specific roles.

As a woman, I have a specific “meaning, purpose, and direction.” I delight in that knowledge. My favorite line from the Relief Society Declaration is that I “find nobility in motherhood and joy in womanhood.” That I do, and I delight in the opportunity to declare to other girls and woman around the world that such roles are divine.

Some would say that I am an anti-feminist by those statements. On the contrary, I consider myself a feminist in every sense of the word. See these definitions (from Merriam-Webster.com):

Feminist: (1) the theory of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes; (2) organized activity on behalf of women’s rights and interests

Women should be politically, economically, and socially equal to men. Whether a woman runs for office, votes for office, buys a house, opens a bank account, or enters a workplace or community environment, she should not be discriminated against and limited. However, women should not be the same as men.

I wish to shout from the rooftops that being a womanly woman is the greatest thing in the world, that being different from men is a wonderful thing. I am a part of the world’s largest woman’s organization, and it certainly supports women’s interests: Relief Society. We women should nurture our own abilities to nurture, for it makes the world so much stronger. Women that know their divine roles are women that truly do “find joy in womanhood.”

In reading over the talks from the last conference, I have found that so many of them are about mothers, motherhood, women’s roles, being a parent, and teaching the rising generation. I loved Sister Beck’s talk from the last general conference, and I find myself reviewing it often.

A good woman must constantly resist alluring and deceptive messages from many sources telling her that she is entitled to more time away from her responsibilities and that she deserves a life of greater ease and independence. But with personal revelation, she can prioritize correctly and navigate this life confidently.

Women are not, therefore, entitled to “me” time, although of course we all need to keep our sanity. We live in an “entitlement” culture; it’s not the Lord’s way. His way is to serve, enduring to the end. And then Sister Beck quotes Sister Eliza R. Snow in a quote that I should frame and put over my bathroom mirror:

Women should be women and not babies that need petting and correction all the time. I know we like to be appreciated but if we do not get all the appreciation which we think is our due, what matters?

The sister I visit for visiting teaching pointed out that women who are abused and/or neglected by her husbands should not feel that they are in the wrong. And as I mention above, women do need to keep sanity and being stranded in a house with, say, a few screaming children for five days a week definitely would drive the best of us insane. But in my case, where I have a husband who dotes on me and takes very good care of me, helps out around the house, and otherwise is the most wonderful man alive, I certainly need this reminder. I get plenty of “me” time.

I admit that I sometimes act like a baby. I don’t want to cook dinner yet again. I don’t want to change yet another poopy diaper. (Yes, after two months of being partially toilet trained Paul is back to no toilet and all diapers.) I don’t want to be the one that is responsible. I want to be coddled and I want someone else to do the dirty work so I can get back to my book (oops, did I say that outloud?!).

But the fact is, I delight in being a mother. I sincerely do “find nobility in motherhood.” I delight in cuddling my son and reading him stories and taking him on walks. I can’t get one (the fun stuff) without the other (the responsibility). Our husbands choose jobs they like, but those jobs aren’t always fun. It is work. And we sure do like payday.

Anyway, this weekend, as I ponder all the responsibilities I have and the ways in which I want to better magnify this eternal job of mine (that is, being a mother), I want to rededicate myself to doing the small, sometimes unpleasant stuff with the nobility of motherhood in mind. Changing those diapers and cleaning the toilets is a part of that noble task.

“Women should be women and not babies that need petting and correction all the time…”

The great thing, but also the not so great thing, about not posting on this site very frequently is that few are going to read this or comment. I like knowing that I can post my testimony in a place where I know it isn’t going away, for my strong feelings of delight at being a woman aren’t about to change. I’d love to hear from you if you are still reading this blog, although please note that I don’t intend to debate women’s roles or feminism in general. I am sharing my testimony of my role and my love of the Lord Jesus Christ.

What do you most love about womanhood and motherhood? What talks about motherhood from the last general conference stood out to you?

We are beloved spirit daughters of God,
and our lives have meaning, purpose, and direction.

As a worldwide sisterhood, we are united in our devotion
to Jesus Christ, our Savior and Exemplar.

We are women of faith, virtue, vision, and charity who:

  • Increase our testimonies of Jesus Christ through prayer and scripture study.
  • Seek spiritual strength by following the promptings of the Holy Ghost.
  • Dedicate ourselves to strengthening marriages, families, and homes.
  • Find nobility in motherhood and joy in womanhood.
  • Delight in service and good works.
  • Love life and learning.
  • Stand for truth and righteousness.
  • Sustain the priesthood as the authority of God on earth.
  • Rejoice in the blessings of the temple,understand our divine destiny,and strive for exaltation.

Micro and Macro: Thoughts on Reading the Book of Mormon

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Last July, when Paul was about 21 months old, I began reading him the Book of Mormon as we ate our breakfast. At first, of course, he barely noticed. He’d keep babbling to himself as he ate his oatmeal. It didn’t (and doesn’t) take long to read five verses. By October, we’d finished First Nephi and begun Second Nephi.

By the New Year, I began to notice something. Paul, now 26 months, enjoyed Book of Mormon time. He’d point to the book on the shelf as he ate and remind me. He’d request Book of Mormon time during lunch too. He’d repeat words (“Wo! Wo!”). He’d look for the pictures of Jesus in it.

I’ve learned a lot from the Book of Mormon by reading so slowly. First, most verses have some precious truth that even a two-year-old can understand. It sometimes felt challenges reading the Isaiah chapters to him. After all, I didn’t want him to remember the word “whoredoms” at age two and a half. Yet, even in the midst of God’s scoldings, there are verses of comfort, reminders to hear with your ears, and calls to come to God. All these are concepts that we need. When a verse says “Open your ears and hear,” my two-year-old can understand. We’re almost finished with Second Nephi now. I’ll let you know when we begin Mosiah (I anticipate it will be another four months).

In January, I began a personal study of the New Testament. When I thought of the Stake President’s request that we read the Book of Mormon by the next stake conference, I discounted myself. Surely that is guidance for those who haven’t read it a dozen times already! I wanted to keep reading the Bible. I’m unfamiliar with it in comparison to the Book of Mormon.

But by March, I was feeling seriously guilty. One Tuesday night, I picked it up and began at the beginning once again. Knowing I had a “deadline” of April 25, I purposely carved out time every night that first week to read the requisite 20 pages (or so). To my surprise, I found myself compelled by what I was reading, so much so that some days I read 50 pages or more. I wanted to carry it around with me during the morning, which I often do with compelling novels, and read it in snatches when I get a break during the day. I wanted to stay up late reading a little bit more before I went to sleep. I wanted to read it.

I finished it in about three weeks, and it was an interesting way to read it. I wasn’t stopping and reading footnotes. I wasn’t taking notes and pondering the teachings I was reading. I was just reading for the overall spirit of the book. What I got was so much more. I gained a stronger love for the Book of Mormon as a book worth reading and rereading. I was reminded each day of the testimony I have of its truthfulness. And ultimately, I was reminded of the hope there is for me, for as I call upon the Savior’s atonement and seek forgiveness for my imperfections, I can someday return to Heavenly Father, imperfect as I am. The people of the Book of Mormon were blinded by pride, by the desire for power, by hate for those around them. It is a tragedy, and yet the message for me is one of hope.

This read, I most loved the book of Mosiah. I remember someone telling me before that King Benjamin’s speech is not for one who is depressed: he only reminds us of our weaknesses and discourages us further. But on the contrary, I loved everything about the book of Mosiah, especially King Benjamin’s speeches. Rather than being depressed, I saw the hope for me, imperfect as I am. I was inspired by Abinadi’s teaching, Alma’s conversion, and the tales of the two groups of people who were enslaved and reacted in two different ways. Alma the Younger’s miraculous conversion reiterates the fact that there is hope for all: we can all be forgiven.

The other thing I learned from reading the Book of Mormon is the importance of the actual act of doing so. Because I was so enthralled by its pages, Paul saw me reading it, and whenever I sat on the couch to read a few pages as he played with his cars, for example, he’d jump up and say “Mommy! Paul’s Book of Mormon too!” And he’d race to get his own blue copy, the one we read every morning at breakfast. He’d pull himself up on the couch as well and he’d “read” his along with me. (This would often last about 30 seconds, but occasionally he would flip through all the pictures and babble to himself for a good 5 minutes.)

The bottom line is that the Book of Mormon is something to be appreciated on both a Macro and a Micro level. Whether you read five verses a day or 60 pages strengthens you. I’m hoping my next read (which will happen now, concurrently with my New Testament study) will be more in the middle of the two extremes as I ponder footnotes, cross reference, and actually study the words saved for our day.

Beyond the mere fact that reading the Book of Mormon is a blessing, I also gained a stronger testimony of the Stake President’s counsel. Surely, there is a reason to obey.  I am grateful I did.

Today’s Reflections

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(1) When people ask me “How are you doing?” they are not hoping to hear potty training updates.

(2) I’ve become obsessive-compulsive about making sure the sippy cup lid matches the sippy cup.

(3) Cleaning toilets doesn’t bother me much anymore, but I still don’t like scrubbing the shower.

(4) Relief Society, while it is not my beloved primary, isn’t all that bad. In fact, I think I like being there each Sunday!

Toilet Training Success Stories Wanted

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Given Paul’s interest in Baby Doll’s toilet training, I’m considering beginning his own toilet training come the first of February. But I’d love to know your ideas for helping it go well. No promises I’ll try your method, but please share away!

Of course, that would assume there are people still reading my bog after months of silence. If not, I understand. My life is only so interesting, as this post demonstrates.

Words and Songs for Everything: A Lesson in Patience from a Two-Year-Old

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A friend in my ward had her baby last week, so I offered to take them dinner last night. She lives on the other side of the ward, so she’s 15-20 minutes away, but I figured I’d get there before 5 and be home long before 5:30 so we could eat our own dinner.

Paul is a great sport in the car — he loves looking for buses and trucks and cars in general. But I hadn’t remembered that we’d be driving through down town Algonquin at rush hour. We ended up not leaving until about 4:40, and so by the time we were driving through down town again, dinner delivered, it was long after 5:30. I was tired of sitting in traffic, and I was starting to get hungry. I kept thinking of the two-year-old still strapped in the back seat. (He often says, “Stuck! Stuck!” as we drive and he tries to squirm, so I know he doesn’t like the car seat part of driving.)

I clutched the wheel tighter and stared at tail lights. I’m sure my frustration was in my voice.

“A few more minutes, Paul! Everyone’s going home right now, so there are lots of cars. We’ll be home soon.”

As I simmered in frustration, staring at tail lights in yet another backed-up stop light, I heard a little sing-song voice from the back seat. I turned to see Paul looking out the window, rocking his head back and forth. He was singing with unintelligible words, but the up and down sounds were familiar and his hands were signing “waiting.” Paul was singing the waiting song!

When his food isn’t ready and he’s hungry, when Mommy’s trying to get the laundry moved before we go to the store and he’s impatient to go now, and any other time that I need him to wait, I sing the waiting song in a  little sing-song voice:

“Waiting! Waiting! Little Paul is waiting! Waiting! Waiting! Paul knows how to wait! Paul knows how to wait!”

Now, here he was, sitting in (what I’m sure is a very uncomfortable) car seat for an hour, waiting for his dinner, and he initiated the Waiting Song.

Sure enough, he has the words. He has a song. Little Paul can wait!

Can Mommy?

Two Years

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Two years ago, I awoke at 3 a.m. with the realization that my three-day overdue baby was finally going to come. At 3:13 p.m., he arrived, 3116 grams and squirmy and blue, eyes open, trying to see the world.

His eyes are still open as he tries to understand everything about the world around him. And now he squirms out of my arms to run play. “Play!” is his first word every morning when I go in to greet him.

Has it really been two years? I love that little boy, even though sometimes I’m impatient. I love the precious moments I get to spend with him as a stay-at-home mom.

I’ve thought a lot lately about the day he was born and the early days of his life. I was so overwhelmed with the sense of responsibility: this is a child of God! God entrusted him to me! And yet, my birth experience taught me that I can be a mother, that I am what he needs on earth.

As I think about this blog, I realized it is the posts on motherhood that I enjoy the most.

I am so grateful to be a mother!