Category Archives: Womanhood

“And She Ministered Unto Them”: Thoughts on Work and Life

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Peter’s wife’s mother was sick with a fever. The Savior came in and healed her, “and she arose, and ministered unto them.” (Matthew 8:14-15).

The Sunday school class last week was discussing the miracle of raising her from her sick bed. I was thinking about how she didn’t even get a break. One minute she’s sick in bed, and the next minute she’s making supper. She was probably the Relief Society president, poor lady.

That observation about the women in the New Testament times has been with me as I’ve gone about my week, because it’s not just New Testament times. Women simply don’t get a break from life: there is no running away. I think of when I’ve been sick and Paul hit me with his toys all day long. I think of when I’m in a cranky mood. I can’t just stomp, because I have to remember that Paul has needs. Even when I’m away at book club, I’m still thinking “I wonder if Paul’s in bed yet, otherwise he’ll be cranky tomorrow,” etc. Mothers never get time off. It’s the way it is. “Women should be women and not babies who need petting and correction all the time.”

The Relief Society Visiting teaching thoughts reminded me of the role I have, as a Relief Society sister, in this age:

“Just as the Savior invited Mary and Martha of New Testament times to participate in His work, women of this dispensation have an official commission to participate in the Lord’s work. … The organization of Relief Society in 1842 mobilized the collective power of the women and their specific assignments to build the Lord’s kingdom.” (Sister Beck)

Then, this afternoon, Ryan asked me about the cup of syrup spilled on the bottom of the fridge. I was a bit annoyed, angry, and upset. Yes, far too much. I didn’t want to clean that up. I want nothing to do with cleaning up that sticky mess. Grr! I didn’t knock it over! Yuck! What a pain! I just cleaned the fridge last week!

Less than ten minutes later, Ryan and I had a conversation about when I almost died, almost ten years ago now.

One minute I was eating a slice of meat in a café in Bolivia, not thinking much about life, and the next minute I was turning blue, literally choking from want of air. There was panic initially, but then an overwhelming feeling of sadness came over me. Mostly, I was sad to be leaving the world. I thought of all the wonderful things I’d experienced. Even more, I thought of all I had hoped to happen in my life: falling in love, becoming a mother, and seeing my parents and siblings again, telling them I love them. I wanted one more chance to do something wonderful. I didn’t want my physical body to be dead.

Why was I so incredibly sad? After all, life continues after this one. Why should I be sad when I knew I’d have chances, at some point after this life, to marry, to raise children, and to otherwise continue to progress? Why be sad at the fact that I was done with this life when I’d be soon rejoining the Maker in an even more glorious world? The life after this one is glorious, and this life is rather hard.

But when I got that precious little breath of air once more, about 3½ minutes later, and I realized that I wasn’t going die, that I was okay, that I would make it home again! That I might still fall in love! Be a mother! LIVE! I was so grateful.

So I should not complain so much now. I shouldn’t be so annoyed at the spilled syrup. (All. Over. The. Fridge.) I should be grateful I’m still alive, that I’ve lived to have a husband, and a son, and a home, and a fridge, and maple syrup to clean up.

That, I think, is why Peter’s mother-in-law was so grateful to get right back up and serve the Lord. And that is why we, as women, should likewise rejoice in service. These relationships and opportunities are just what we are here on earth to do.

Today’s Relief Society lesson was also about the glorious principle of work: why should we as home-working women, resent the housework so much?

I need to remember that memorable bite more often. Life is so glorious!

P.S. The photo above is from the horseback ride we went on shortly after my experience. I didn’t take the picture, since my camera had been stolen; one of my friends took this picture.

P.P.S. The Heimlich Maneuver works, if you wanted to know. Please learn it!

What Makes a Prayer a Prayer?

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The other day, Paul, who is obsessed with the ABCs and sings the “ABC Song” a dozen times a day, said he’d say the prayer for lunch.

“This is the new prayer, Mommy.” And then, in the melody of the ABCs, he continued, “ABCDEFG, Thank you, God, for everything.”

“That’s not reverent, dear.” I responded. “We don’t joke about prayers. That sounds like the ABC song to me.”

“But that’s my prayer,” he insisted, frowning when I asked him again to say a proper prayer.

Today, when I dropped him off at preschool, I was telling his teacher about the ABC Book he made, and how he just loves the ABCs.

“Oh, we have a new snack prayer they just love,” she said. Then she sang the song I’d heard from Paul, except at the end it said, “Thank you, God, for feeding me.”

“Oh, I get it now!” I responded, “Paul had told me that but I hadn’t believed it was a prayer.”

“Oh, well, it has the ‘Thank you, God’ so it is the snack prayer,” she responded.

And since then, I’ve been pondering prayer. Does really saying “Thank you, God” make something a prayer? To me, a casual “Thank God” sounds like taking his name in vain. People say that all the time, and how often are they sincerely thanking him?

That said, everyone prays differently, and I certainly don’t believe God ignores sincere prayers. The Lutheran service that my son sang at during the fall was a “contemporary” service, with a rock band. Yet, I still felt the spirit as I listened to the pastor talking about how we can all be more loving to each other. Just because something is done with a different degree of reverence does not mean there is no spirit or sincerity.

But to my sensibilities, it is irreverent. In my home, I don’t want my son praying by singing an ABC Song prayer that sounds like it’s using God’s name in vain. I want him to bow his head, close his eyes, and pour out his own words of thanks to his Heavenly Father, speaking to him as the son of God that he is. I don’t want my son sitting at the piano, making up a melody for a song with the only lyrics being “God, God, God.” (He wanted to sing that for Family Home Evening this week.) To me, that is irreverent. I’d rather he sing of his relationship with his Heavenly Father through primary songs.

I just signed him up for his second year of preschool at the Lutheran preschool he’s been going to. Now I’m wondering if he’s just going to be confused. He’s already learned the distinction that, “At home I pray to Heavenly Father, but at preschool I pray to Jesus.”

Is learning reverence for our Heavenly Father, especially during prayer, something I should worry about? I do want him to learn the gospel of Jesus Christ correctly, and maybe the Lutheran influence will only confuse him.

The Management of the Home Is an Art

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Those women we call “house”-wives deserve praise. The domestic work they carry out, and which is not paid in hard cash, is essential to the home. Their compensation remains the pile of well ironed, sweet-smelling washing, the shining tiled floor on which the foot glides, the gay kitchen filled with the smell of stews. Their silent action is felt in the least useful detail: over there, a flower in bloom placed in a vase, elsewhere a painting with appropriate colours, hung up in the right place. The management of the home is an art. (page 63, So Long a Letter by Mariama Ba, translated from French by Modupe Bode-Thomas)

Background: Ramatoulaye is a teacher in 1970s or 1980s Senegal, married to a man who, after twenty-five years of marriage and twelve children, has taken a second wife: a young girl who was his oldest daughter’s best friend. In Senegal, under Islam, polygamy is legal. Ramatoulaye has plenty of issues to deal with, but I certainly appreciated her praise for those who care for her home. (Despite the fact that she has domestic help, she still must do much of the work to keep the home running.)

My Pumpkin Cake

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I meant to post this on Halloween so my site would be rather festive. Alas, it has taken me a week to post this, but never fear: here is my pumpkin cake.

I have never decorated a cake before, so this was quite the undertaking. But actually, it was quite simple. I made two cake mixes and baked them in three rounds. When they were cool, I sliced off the top of two of them and stacked the three together, with frosting in between the layers.

Then I carved the sides off, so it was rounded a bit like a pumpkin. I frosted the sides and top. I used some of the extra cake (from the carving) to insert a little stem. After it sat in the fridge overnight, I frosted another layer so it would be smoother. I think it turned out well!
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It is a little lopsided, yes, but what pumpkin is ever completely rounded? Besides, it was my first attempt. It has the equivalent of one and a half cake mixes and five batches of frosting (each batch is 1/3 cup butter and 3 cups powdered sugar).

Is this to be a Halloween tradition?

I should note that I didn’t eat it. I took it to my ward Halloween party; it was a prize for the pumpkin carving contest. No worries, I had tons of leftover cake and frosting at home!

Train Restaurant at Home (aka, Making Leftovers Fun)

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It’s only for two nights. It’s nothing, but I still miss my husband tonight! I keep thinking of things like “oh, I have to take out the trash” and “Oh, right, I need to make sure all the doors are locked before I go to sleep.” Etc. It’s amazing how quickly I got used to having him home! (And I just talked to him and he apparently <sarcasm>really missed</sarcasm> all the fun that is O’Hare Airport.)

I was feeling sad as dinner came around. Trying to cook for two (and Paul doesn’t like to eat my dinners so it’s mostly for me) does not feel worthwhile. Plus, we had leftovers in the fridge, so I decided the lazy side won out and went for those.

Then I had a brilliant idea. Paul loves going to a restaurant, and he always orders Mac and Cheese. As soon as I say “restaurant,”  he yells out “I want Mac and Cheese!” So I told my son we were going to a restaurant for dinner. I welcomed him to the restaurant, sat him at the table, handed him a “menu” (really a piece of junk mail that was sitting on the counter) and asked him what he wanted: Mac and Cheese (left over from the other night when we did go to a restaurant) or Chicken Nuggets (other leftovers I had in the freezer for just such a night). He had a big smile as he pretended to read, then said, “Mac and Cheese!” I gave him two crackers to eat while he waited and a cup of milk with a straw (since restaurants always give him a drink with a straw), and he happily waited.

Then, out of the blue, Paul said, “Mommy, it’s a train restaurant!” A few months ago (a year ago?!) we went to a restaurant with Grandma and Grandpa in Naperville that did have trains. We sat around a counter and a train “delivered” the food to us. He loved it. So tonight I agreed our restaurant was a train restaurant, and got some GeoTrax from the basement. Soon, we had a small circle track for our battery-operated train. But I wouldn’t turn it on until he took a bit of food!  Turn off, and repeat for each bite.

I had mentioned that maybe after he ate we could have dessert. After a little while, he asked me for the “menu” again, and then he said, “I want some blueberry yogurt for dessert, please.” I hadn’t even suggested it, and I had been thinking of ice cream, but it was fun to know that for him it was a treat to have yogurt.

I noticed a lot of interesting things about this. I was treating him as if I were a waiter (“Hello, young man. What can I get you today?”) and acting all polite. As a result, instead of demanding as he usually does (“MILK! NOW!”), he mellowed out. “Can I please have some more milk please?” Was it the fact that we were in a restaurant (where he normally is more well behaved since it’s in public) or the fact that I was treating him nicer than I normally do? Probably both. I should treat him nicer more often.

At any rate, it made for a fun dinner and it got him to eat more than he would have eaten if I was grouchy as I had been when I was feeling sad that my husband was gone!

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!

Anna

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I have just scrubbed Anna’s name from the corner of Paul’s bedroom wall. It may have taken a year and a half, but now that room is wholly his.

When we first moved in, I found myself creating a drama in my head about this girl. At ten or eleven, she was forced to leave her home and her swing set. I imagined a dramatic story for her parents that explained why they stopped paying their mortgage payment, a story for why the mother kept a snapshot of her son (Michael) in her bathroom drawer and how she kept it there to the last and then forgot it. I imagined Anna’s reaction come winter when she realized she’d left her size 7, purple-laced ice skates in the attic. I imagined the reasons behind the pair of sneakers left in the garage, the sweatshirt under the kitchen sink. (Turns out that sweatshirt was there for a practical reason, as the faucet was broken when we moved in and turning it on forced water into the under-the-sink area. The sweatshirt came in handy.)

At any rate, eighteen months later, I’ve realized I don’t think of Anna and Michael and their delinquent-on-their-mortgage parents anymore. I see my house and love it as my house. I see Paul’s room, and whenever that door opened all the way, I saw Anna’s height on the wall, marring Paul’s room.

And thanks to magic erasers for getting that pencil and pen off the wall. It’s truly Paul’s wall now.