The Problem with Relief Society

My family has been attending church in my mother's ward, ever since they changed our church to a 1:30 start time, and we have two toddlers... Tonight I dragged my mother to a Relief Society activity. It was a dinner, celebrating the birth of the Relief Society, and I had signed up to bring a fruit "salad." Oh my goodness, it was amazing. Cool whip and sweetened condensed milk? Say no more. That was a dessert.

For pertinent backstory, my family has a bit of an "unholy" personality. My sister was present at the birth of my second child, and we laughed up a storm the whole time, and told jokes to no end. During my labor, when I'd asked my sister if I'd pooped during a contraction, she said that I absolutely had. "You're disgusting." she had added. And it was the truth. And we laughed. My mother and I began our conversing at the dinner in like manner - pointing out truths boldly, but without overt emotional investment or intended offense.

Mom pointed out to the Relief Society president herself, that the Relief Society had once been run independently from the priesthood, but had been consolidated underneath the priesthood in the mid-1900's, she thought. A few feminism jokes at the Relief Society's expense, and we sat. The tables had pictures, and later we would find, matching pictures taped underneath the chairs, for a "getting to know you" activity later on.

My mother had been asked to speak. The topic? Why I Love Relief Society. But fun fact.

She hates it.

My mother had imagined concourses of women assigned 2 minute talks, as she had been. But fun fact.

She was the only one.

My mother, who never tells a lie, did not, in fact, tell a lie. (You don't lie, do you Mom?)

An uncomfortable room full of women celebrating the birth of the Relief Society sat and listened as my mother stated that she did not, in fact, like the Relief Society. She did not, in fact, have a testimony of the Relief Society in its current condition. Now, that may make it sound like my mother jumped forth from her seat and paraded her opinion, lording it over everyone's heads. She didn't. In fact, she apologized about 4 times, stated she was worried the Relief Society president had called the wrong person to talk, and spoke humbly regarding the inconsistencies she saw. But then my mother made a point that has stuck with me.

She mentioned that she was raised by a feminist father - that she had never doubted that she had any more or less importance then anyone else. When she joined the Church, however, she first saw and questioned that equality - in Relief Society.

Women treat each other like children, like victims, as incompetent. Instead of intellectually approaching a lesson with pertinent, thought provoking conversation, valuable time can be spent on doilies and handouts. (Just the week before, in Relief Society, our teacher had been discussing The Good Shepherd, and had handed out scriptures to read to the class on paper cut and shaped like SHEEP. She spent at least 20 minutes cutting out those sheep and writing scriptures on them, because why? Because we, as full grown women, would appreciate a scripture more if it was CUTE?) Building a maternal, supportive community, and serving our neighbors takes second place to being "nice," "polite," and "delicate." To quote a talk from a General Conference, "The world has enough women who are tough; we need women who are tender. There are enough women who are coarse; we need women who are kind. There are enough women who are rude; we need women who are refined." While these are certainly lovely traits to aspire to, they must not come at the cost of honesty, sincerity, and being "without guile." And heaven sakes. Don't be stuffy. Have fun!

Relief Society has lost its vision, and unfortunately, I fear, may be causing doubts in many a faithful feminist who does not feel at home in the Church, where the culture casts aspersions at a woman's capacity.

The Relief Society claims to be the world's largest women's organization, but can it truly be called a women's organization if it operates under the direction of a men-only organization? So long as Relief Society Presidents are called to assist bishops, receive lesson topics from bishops, have to seek approval for activities from bishops, etc, that "equality" can be questioned. Recently some ladies from my actual neighborhood, and 1:30 ward, were asking about a ward Facebook page. When were we going to get one? I, as a semi-member of that ward, waited in anticipation for this wonderful means of communicating with my "actual" ward, and the thought that we might have activities, quick social invites to play groups, etc.

The women spoke. Not our job, so we'll just have to see. As a feminist, I commented, "Well, why don't we just do it, and make it our job?" No go.

Women are intelligent, and, believe it or not, we have something to offer.

I follow Big Ocean Women. They're a maternal feminism movement, which I would not be surprised to find is run by a bunch of members of The Church. This week they've been at the UN, and, during naptime, I tuned in to listen to a live cast of one of their speeches. (Thank you Facebook.) They spoke about the Maternal Economy. They felt that government/the UN/the MAN was going about "fixing" things all wrong. They currently operate under the assumption that women are in the negative - they are lacking things. So they're sending women in other countries things that they think they need - abortions, etc, to help them. The Maternal Economy, Big Ocean Women argues, is not lacking. They are not in debt, and do, in fact, have things to offer. Instead of women screaming out a list of demands, and things that they NEED, women are better empowered by offering what they have, and being valued for that. This fight for women cannot be won from the outside in. We don't need outside entities to take care of us. WE can take care of us, and then we can take care of them, and them, and them, etc. I don't need my government to take care of me. I take care of my family. I give and care for my community, and make the world a better place from the inside out.  Let's be honest. I missed the first 50 minutes, and this probably sounds like the rantings of a crazy, tired mother, but that 5 minute summary at the ending got me thinking.

What is wrong with Relief Society?

I asked my husband what he loved about Elders Quorum tonight. He told me that he loves it more than Sunday School. He loves how relevant it is, and noted that they have some great discussions. Elders Quorum, when done well, creates a strong feeling of fraternal brotherhood.

The sheep handouts and strict, rigid lesson structure I had in Relief Society last week gave me no feelings of sisterhood.
I feel sisterhood when I can tell my sister I think I pooped on the table, and she can tell me, "You totally did," and we can laugh about it. I feel sisterhood when I can take my screaming toddler by the arm and tell my sister we have to leave early, and she doesn't judge me, or worry about our relationship. I feel sisterhood when I can whisper covertly with my sister, calculating days on her phone's calendar, to determine if my pregnancy scare is genuinely concerning. (TOTALLY not pregnant. Thank goodness. Not trying for that, right now. Thank you Hannah.)

Being told we couldn't create our own ward Facebook page gave me no feelings of empowerment.
I feel empowerment when I come up with an idea, and see it through to successful completion. I feel empowered when I am supported in my ideas, and assisted, rather than roadblocked for petty tyrannical reasons. I feel empowered when I don't need permission at every step, and can be independent. I feel empowered when I can help someone who was unable to help themselves.

My mother and I were some of the last people left at the dinner. We'd had to switch to a different table, though fortunately had gone together, to tell the new people at this new table some of our favorite things.

Our table-mate loved her nail gun, and building furniture. I loved archaeology and ancient history. My mom loved cemetery photography. Everything about US screamed capable and independent. We talked about travel, we talked about neurology, we talked about the proper way to finish a table. If you'd put the three of us in a room to discuss finding a solution to a problem, we would have found one. We were smart. But all three of us hated Relief Society.

I don't know what needs to change, and understand that it is cultural. Perhaps it is only a Utah problem. (And a BYU-Idaho problem, but their problems also had to do with too many women and not enough men, so secretly, we were all kind of jealous and critical of each other.) I don't know what the solution is. But I'm not alone in hating the Relief Society.

Maybe it would be better if we were truly run independently, no bishop approvals, etc. Generally, the church could give us back all the "relief" jobs - global disasters, training programs, etc. I would love to see women run that department.

Do you have an answer?

Minute Writes

Just felt like posting some of my "minute writes" because I literally have no outlet for my writing. If anyone wants to write with me, you just let me know, and we'll write together. ;)


KNOWING NOTHING:

Pain. Flashes and streaks of pure white, clouding vision and all thought. Blinding, deafening, pressing harder and harder...

Pain.

In a moment it was gone, an afterimage miraging shapes with each blink. Oxygen came more easily, and she found herself sweating, trembling, gasping, and weak.

“Are you alright?” a voice asked, and she was faintly aware of another presence. A hand gently touched her arm, cautiously soothing.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.”

She voiced the words without thought, doing all she could to calm her frenzied senses, still a fevered heart, recover a clearer sight, and breathe through the splitting of her head.

“Alright. Come over here.” the voice directed again, and she felt a slight pressure on her elbow, pulling her from her seated position to walk wearily to a padded chair.

She sat, blinking slowly, gingerly touching fingers to head.

“I’m so sorry.” her companion sighed. She saw him then – graying at the temples, his clothing wrinkled and worn. He walked beside her with care, obvious concern pinching the corners of his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright.” she confirmed, feeling herself slowly regaining control of her senses. “I’m alright.” She glanced behind herself, back towards where she had been.

A hard metal chair, a metal bowl-shaped disk hung upside down over top of it. She couldn’t remember, but by the looks of it, the contraption had likely been placed on her head. That was the shape of it, anyway.

Her companion continued to mutter to himself with mothering worry as he stepped towards a fireplace, tucked off in a corner of the room. A pot hung over it, simmering. She vaguely heard the words “...don’t know how much longer...” as he grabbed the pot with a cloth and placed it on the table beside the fire.

She looked around the room as he worked, doing her best to focus her vision. The room was dark, with a dusty sense of age. All of the essentials were present – bed, table, chairs. The fire seemed to be the only source of warmth, and she could hear a howling wind outside, from underneath the wooden door. Through the window she saw only darkness – night.

“Here.” her companion pressed, at her side once more, holding a steaming mug. “Drink up. You’ll feel better. How is your head?”

“Getting better.” she stated honestly, taking the mug from him with careful hands. The warm ceramic felt good on her fingers, so she gripped it with both hands, holding the steam to her face and breathing it in. It had a fresh peppermint scent, which seemed to chase off the last of the fog from her mind. She drank it gratefully.

Her companion sat, sinking down into the remaining padded chair in the room. He leaned back, rubbing at his eyes. “I don’t know why this isn’t working.” he sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t want to keep doing this, if it’s not going to work. There’s got to be something on the other side, that we don’t know about, that’s preventing it.”

She listened quietly, sipping silently in response, still recovering.

But from what?
“If there was an easier way, we’d give up.” he continued. “But I can’t see another option, not with things as they are, right now. Can we really afford to keep putting you through this, though?”

She didn’t say anything, only continued sipping her drink.

He watched her, waiting, and his eyes slowly darkened. “What are you thinking?”

Worry slowly crept its way into her chest, replacing her numbed silence with dread and fear.

“I...” she started, biting her bottom lip slowly. She didn’t want to disappoint him. “I want to help. I do.” she mumbled. “I just… If you could tell me what it is exactly we’re doing, then I might be able to help more. I just don’t… I don’t know what you need...”

Her companion’s eyes had widened, horror replacing the sad expression that had been present only moments earlier. He leapt from his chair to crouch at her side, a hand shooting to her arm then hesitating, trembling. “Do… Can you tell me your name?” he asked.

It was a simple enough question. Yet she found that the answer was not so simple.

She shook her head, too afraid to state her not knowing out-loud.

Her companion swallowed, and his trembling moved from his hand to his throat. “Do… What is the last thing you remember?”

Nothing.

“I… Pain?”

“What kind of pain?” His eyebrows furrowed, his eyes fixed on her face.

“It… There was just white, and then it stopped, and I was here...”

Despite all her not knowing, she knew enough to know that she should know more. And that made her afraid.

Her companion seemed to crumble internally before her. He swallowed, his eyes brimming with tempered emotion. He sucked in air, holding it in with tight swallows. “Okay.” he mumbled, blinking quickly. “Okay. Um...”

She knew nothing, but sensed his grief. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...”

“No, no, no!” he stated quickly, swallowing back more emotion. “No, it’s okay. It’s alright. You don’t need to be sorry. I just...” He straightened himself, and smiled, something she knew was entirely forced and painful. His moistened eyes betrayed him. “You’re safe here.” he assured, smoothing her arm. “I will take care of you. You are perfectly safe. I’m here to help you.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“That’s alright!” he assured again. “You haven’t done anything wrong! I just… I’m going to head outside for a minute.” he swallowed. “You make yourself comfortable. Have something to eat, or you can lie down and rest. You’re probably tired. I’m just going to be right outside for a minute. Everything is fine. You’re safe here. Is that okay?”

She quietly nodded, then took another sip of her drink.

Her companion stood carefully, then stepped towards the front door, glancing back with anxious eyes, and a false, comforting smile, before he stepped out, closing the door behind him.

She sat back and breathed in the steam of her drink, closing her eyes and trying to let the drink’s warmth spread through her. She could feel its warmth in her chest, could hear the crackling of the fire, and the light hiss and pop of bursting wood.

She tried not to worry.

Outside the wind continued to howl, and faintly, she imagined, she could hear her companion begin crying silently beneath the wind’s cover. She felt to cry, herself, but could find no reason to.

A girl who knows nothing has no reason for tears.  

(Obviously could be a good story, but probably won't be. Just wanted to get that scene out!!)

WE LOST OUR MOTHER

We lost our Mother, and nobody cared.

I have to believe she exists, because I exist.
I have to believe that she loves me,
For I have a Father who loves me, undeniably.
Is there really room to doubt a Heavenly Mother’s love?

Our prophet recently listed 10 Most Important Things he Knows for Sure.
The first thing he mentioned was that God is our Father.
Second, he mentioned Christ is our Savior.
Our Mother didn’t even make the list.

She is a woman shrouded in mystery and silence.
She is unmentioned, unacclaimed, un-worshiped.

The ancients knew of Her, and worshipped Her with Him, as God.
However, in history, she was expunged.
We read that idolatry was rampant. Groves were set up, and there, unholy worship occurred.
It would be just the act of a Mother to step back, sacrifice Herself to silence
To ensure a clear path set for Her children to walk on - one less ambiguous and trying.

Regardless, she is a mystery,
Though a mystery our Church does nothing more to know about.
Through carefree indifference for half of our deific parentage,
We inadvertently disregard Her daughters - Her offspring, who know nothing of
Her, Her roles, or their own potential.

Through policies, ordinations to a solely male priesthood, and lack of female guidance,
We perpetuate the notion that only the male God is to rule,
While women accept their silent, unmentioned and mysterious places behind the men.
To say that roles are different, resulting in strictly male leadership and authority, is to suggest
That our Mother quietly takes her place
Because it is her ROLE to be a quiet, passive, obedient God.

Is she God the Mother?
Does She have nothing to teach?
Do our mothers serve no purpose but to feed and clothe the children, and support our fathers?
Are our mothers ordained to simply not stand and be counted strong on their own?
For all our praise of earthly mothers, we certainly treat them as second-class citizens,
Incapable of real independent thought, intention, or action.

Can we not be leaders? Can we not even lead ourselves, that we must be coddled and led
By men, and their priesthood?

The Bible mentions prophetesses. Women of power.
Their husbands are not mentioned.
I do not believe our Mother ought to be assigned
An afterthought position behind our Father.
Together, they are God.
But she can be mentioned as a capable God on Her own.
To simply have to state that sentence is offensive.

Ancient prophetesses received revelations.
We know in this dispensation women do too.
We see visions, we are given answers and understandings.
Anciently prophetesses were sought out for their wisdom and guidance.
There is no structure today in which a man would ever seek wisdom of a woman
Unless he were related to her.

Women provide insight, and different ways of thinking
That men do not have.
We compliment each other, to the point that our unions
Are sealed, and given divine weight.
Together, and only together, we receive exaltation.
Yet in our churches, men consult, preside, and decide on their own.

But women, too, are capable of standing.
A religion which does not reinforce honoring our Mother
By treating Her holy authority with reverence is lacking.
To say our Mother has Authority is easily met with confusion.
And if our God-half is not openly seen and treated as equal to our Father,
What hope do we have of ever being Her priestesses?
What hope do we have of ever having any say, or rule, or wisdom?

What kind of family could lose their Mother,
And say nothing?
What kind of family quietly acknowledges their Mother,
Knows that She exists, but cares little to know Her?

I am a mother. My religion has taught me that someday I can be like God.
I will be like my Heavenly Mother.
But she is lost.
And I don’t want to be.

And Then There Was Light

Recently, like every other Latter-Day Saint woman and their dog, I went on a 10-day Social Media fast, as encouraged by our prophet. I knew it would be a good experience, like most of us, deep down, knew it. How many hours a week do we waste scrolling? A lot.

But to me the focus was on fasting from media that brought negativity, too. No more late night John Oliver or Colbert Reports with my husband. I was fasting from all of that, too. (Instead we watched Runaway Jury and had another Lord of the Rings marathon, which was totally legit.)

I've been back on social media for two days, now, and, like returning from my mission, I feel like I can see with new eyes what I was blind to before. I don't mean to run around "holier than thou." Please don't misinterpret. But it started my thinking.

Social Media is my number one bringer of "doom and gloom." On a day to day basis, I can safely say that I don't have many social interactions with people that make me feel like I might get nuked, brainwashed, or shot in the next week. On Facebook, it took me about 2 minutes to feel like that just might happen.

I'm not saying it's good to be blind to current political tensions, goings-on, or public discussion. It's really good to be an aware human being. Being aware makes smart choices. Knowing there's a scary white van driving around Elementary Schools in Herriman makes me make safer decisions. Knowing Saudi Arabia assassinated an American resident, and our President doesn't feel like calling them out on it, because of billions of dollars of "business" helps give me insight into the importance of voting for good candidates next month, and, on a more personal level, makes me evaluate if I have ever taken a more "comfortable" position, to protect myself and my self-image. Thought provoking.

There is plenty of good that comes from being aware. But I also feel more strongly now that pessimism is the beginning of the end. Pessimism brings hopelessness and despair. Being swamped with routine, habitual negativity drives out faith in God, frankly, and His love. It limits our vision and scope, and instead focuses our energies on worry, rather than on the Mr. Rogers mentality of looking for the Helpers, or of being the change that is needed, in the world.

When you spend more time talking with people, rather than reading the extreme, popular negative view, you come to find out that your day to day people really are genuinely good and kind. Yes, the world is full of issues, but when you talk to people instead of type at them, you come to conclusions, rather than insults and distrust.

I got caught in a Facebook conversation. (Dude, if you know me, YUP.) A friend was upset at something that was said in General Conference. They felt that Elder Oaks' talk was insulting to the Singles in the Church, and that "this kind of thing" is what is driving people away. Now, it might just be because I'm happily married, but nothing Elder Oaks said upset me, and I had no idea people were upset about it until after my Facebook fast. They felt that when Elder Oaks said that "many" are delaying marriage and family, he meant it as a personal attack on all single people, irregardless of whatever reason for their singleness. What one person felt negative about was blown up in a blog post, misinterpreted and misconstrued to fit with their own personal feelings of offense, when simply put, Elder Oaks was simply saying that we should be less caught up in the things of the world, and trust that family life is the way to happiness. (I'm sorry, but even if you're single or childless, you should still recognize that children and spouses are what God intends for us - yes, even EVENTUALLY - for our eternal happiness.) Their negative interpretation and bias was then spread for mass production, leading many readers to vaguely agree, "Why yes! I am single, and I don't like being told that I am wrong!" Motives and situations are completely ignored, while the negativity is spread.

This happens ALL THE TIME. Everything! And frankly, I'm kind of sick of it. Social Media almost proves that we would rather be unhappy about SOMETHING, then happy about literally everything else. I honestly do think that the Depression we see has a lot of root in social media. Frankly, if we didn't have someone suggest the possibility for offense or upset to us, would we be offended about half of the things we are offended or upset about? For my part, I can safely say no. Honestly, I wouldn't be. And our prophet is warning us against this danger of social media - primarily to the youth! I don't think he's warning them against it because he wants to brainwash them, and keeping them away from social media blinds their eyes to the evil that is their Church. No, honestly, I don't think that's what it is. I think our prophet wants our youth to get off their phones and experience life for themselves, and see the hope that is in the people and the lives around them.

If I'd opened my mind, been susceptible, and believed everything I'd read on Social Media in the last two days, then most men are shallow, sexually perverted, easily manipulated and corrupted. I'd believe that my church wants LGBTQ individuals dead, and doesn't care if they all kill themselves. I'd believe that the local school district doesn't give a dang about me or my kids, and that they are ignorant and stupid for changing the local boundaries for our Elementary schools!!

There are literally always two sides to a story. Talking to people, REAL PEOPLE, is the only way we will ever really know what the truth is, and in talking to those people, we'll likely find that our worst fears are highly exaggerated. I don't doubt some men are sexual predators. I don't doubt some members of my church have been hateful and despicable to the LGBTQ population. I don't doubt that I'm going to be terribly inconvenienced by where my children need to go to school, once they get there.

HOWEVER, I also know, from actual conversations with MEN, that most guys are actually pretty normal, like most girls actually, and have concerns, weaknesses, and faults, like most girls actually, and, for the most part, don't spend their free time thinking about how they can molest me or my children just for fun. I also know that my church believes in loving everyone. I know that in the past they have said some terrible things, pointed some blame in unjustified directions, but also know that they are trying very hard to fix those negative aspects of the past. Yes, they made mistakes, and stupid proud people have made mistakes. But they are trying SO HARD not to, now. As for my school boundaries issue? I know Herriman is going through crazy growth. I know the school board doesn't "have it out for the Lisches." I can trust a little bit more, and choose to be more optimistic, and grateful that I don't have the job of trying to make everyone happy.

Being positive and hopeful is a choice - and that's how I'm choosing to make my Social Media habits, now. I would invite anyone to join me! Yes, I'm not saying I won't post when my baby pees on the floor, and Julian screams and kicks me in the store, and life happens. Heaven knows, I might need advice, or an ice cream date. Sometimes things suck. But there is ALWAYS something to be happy about, which makes the down sides of life mere momentary inconvenience.

A few weeks ago I wrote something. It was a feeling I'd been struggling with for awhile, and the only way to express it, and give the troubling thought due credit, was to write it out. I didn't share it - only with my husband, who asked. And frankly, I'm glad I didn't. Because it's no longer relevant. The things I wrote I wrote in confusion and anger. I wrote them with tears streaming down my cheeks, and an empty upset in my chest. But over the next few weeks, the questions I had got answers, the unfairness I felt was consoled, and I came to a point of understanding and patience.

It is too easy to speak without thinking. It is too easy to post without care. Heaven knows, social media is the perfect outlet for such thoughtless, blind moments. But thoughtless, blind moments are not what we should live for, and fill our days with. Our days should be filled with family, growth, and God. So if that means less browsing of social sites, to keep that perspective, that's one option. Being more picky about the posts and individuals you follow is another. But all in all, I was grateful for the reminder of perspective.

That's awfully introspective for a Thursday.

A Bad Mom

Having a bad mom day. I woke up Depressed. I have Depression. This happens. I made breakfast for the toddler, and made a bottle for the baby, then sat down on the couch to feed Thing 2 while Thing 1 ate at the table.
The toddler finished quickly, and announced, "Done!" If I don't retrieve him from his booster seat soon, he gets grumpy, and heavens knew I didn't want that. I put the baby down, who proceeded to cry, from being interrupted, while I cleaned up the toddler and instructed him to "Go play!" with a smile on my face.
I proceeded to feed the baby. He's been teething, I think, so is exceptionally grumpy, and gave all the cues that he wanted to go back to sleep, shortly after finishing his bottle. I laid him down, and sleep he did not. He only cried, while his eyes rolled back tiredly. While I'm checking on the baby, the toddler is attempting to enter the baby's room, while loudly talking, yelling, and crashing things. I proceeded to close the door behind myself, from then on, while checking on the baby, which made toddler jealous and angry. I would leave the baby alone to cry, for a time, to follow the toddler around wherever he wanted me, but when I would inevitably get up to check on the screaming baby again, the toddler followed behind with a loud whine.
I got a notification I had a grocery pickup ready at WalMart, so I grab the baby, who never slept. He screams on the floor while I throw shoes and a jacket on the toddler. I drag the toddler outside, and attempt to put him in his carseat. He sits with his bum at the edge of the seat, lazily staring at me. I try to lift him back, to correct his bum, but his stuffed dog is in the way. I throw one of his arms through the seatbelt, chuck the dog on the floor, and get his other arm through, with effort, while he screams at me over being restrained, and over the missing dog. I return his dog when I'm done with the seatbelt. (The baby, fortunately, gives me no grief, and is quite cute.)
By the time we're home, the baby is still yawning, rubbing his eyes, and has started screaming again. The toddler has removed his shoes, thrown his dog on the floor again, and is whining about it. I carry the baby in the house, and go back for the toddler. I grab a gallon of milk to carry upstairs with him. He leans over, intent on carrying the milk himself, resulting in his near falling out of my arms while we're up half a flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs I'm barely holding him under his armpits. I set him down, and thankfully, he heads for our door. He complains the ground is cold, and, while I'm opening the door, he attempts to run to the neighbors door. I catch him in time, and herd him inside.
The baby is screaming on the floor. I throw the groceries down, lay the baby in bed, then head back to the kitchen to put food in the refrigerator. The toddler wants milk. Somewhere along the line half of his toys escaped their toy boxes, and are all over the floor. I give him milk. The mess is getting to me. The toddler is trying to grab a toy he can't quite reach. He's yelling. I help him reach the toy, and put on Clifford. This calms the toddler down enough that I can clean up, and put everything away.
We watch Clifford for an hour. I try to sit and breathe, and actually feel like the day might get better. I eat some chocolate. Toddler gets some too. 11:00 rolls around, and I'm thinking about what to make for lunch. I'd put away a can of Spagetti-O's, but I'd also put away a pizza dough mix. I want to be a good mom. I go to make the pizza.
The toddler begins whining. 'The TV is off, because I don't want him getting too much screen time. I was trying to be a good mom. He's mad that mom is in the kitchen, and not currently playing with him. He's also now starving hungry. He sees me shredding cheese, and begins screaming for cheese, thus waking up the baby. I leave the baby to cry while I finish as quickly as I can, wiping the cheese crumbs into a bowl for a yelling toddler.
I get the baby, and decide to give him some pear, because I haven't given him anything besides formula today, and I really do need to get this kid some food. It's a perfect time because the pizza is cooking. I put him in his high chair, and begin to feed him pear. The toddler finishes his cheese, and decides this is a great time to climb the high chair. He knocks over the tray, he jolts the seat, scaring the baby, and earning himself a scolding. He feels unloved by mom, and begins playing with toys while crying.
Mom finishes feeding baby, places baby with toys on the floor, and baby begins to cry. Mom gets pizza out of the oven, and cut into pieces. She feels guilty for only having pizza for the toddler, so cuts up a tomato as well, and pulls together some pineapple chunks. Baby is still crying. Toddler is yelling because he knows food is in the kitchen, and does not have the cognitive capacity to understand that it is for him. Mom hauls him to his booster seat and straps him in. She runs to the kitchen and makes a bottle of formula for the crying infant who wanted no more pears, but perhaps wants formula? Mom throws a couple slices of pizza on a plate for herself as well, props baby in her arm and feeds him, while taking bites of pizza for herself.
Peace for a second.
The toddler is done, after eating four bites, maybe. I put the baby down to clean up the toddler. The baby cries from being interrupted. I throw the toddler's leftovers in the sink. I sit down to finish eating, myself, and feed the baby more. The toddler is angry I am not playing with him. I attempt to explain to him that I am still eating. He throws more toys around recklessly.
The baby spits up all over himself, and me. It is already his second shirt today. (There was another spit-up in there somewhere.) I move over to the couch with him, when I've finished eating. The light from the window reflects off my watch, casting a glowing orb over my side table. The cat attacks, and knocks my books over. The toddler grabs the books, and begins pulling on the pages with far from delicate hands. I'm telling him no. I'm trying to keep him from grabbing my Diet Pepsi. The baby isn't actually drinking, only arching his back and still crying and crying.
I know the toddler just wants attention. I try and talk to him about his toys, and his playing, while bicycling the baby's legs, assuming he has gas. This works for a couple precious minutes. Baby still crying. Toddler running towards the front door, saying he wants to leave. Obviously tired. Not going to happen. Toddler stands on the rug and, before I know it, has gagged himself with his finger, until he throws up on the rug. (I thought he'd grown out of this attention seeking thing with the vomit.)
I'm frustrated. I set the baby down, who cries, from being interrupted. I strip the toddler, who has vomit on himself, and put him in his room while I clean up. He smells like poop, but there's vomit on the floor and a crying baby. I let him loose in his room.
I clean up, then open the toddler's bedroom door to let him out. Baby wants to try drinking again. I give him more of the bottle. (He's still only had 2 ounces in the last hour that he's been awake.) The toddler climbs onto the couch, and I see the poop escaping up his back. I immediately put the, screaming again, baby down, and take the toddler to change his diaper. He has poop on his fingers and under his fingernails, from obviously investigating his dirty diaper, while he was alone in his room. I clean his fingers with a wipe as well. He accuses me of biting him. I want to bite him! I don't.
I'm feeding the baby again, who's still not eating, but still not happy. He doesn't want to lie down and play. He doesn't want to talk to me. He doesn't want to eat. But he is happy lying on my chest, so I let him do that. The toddler is not happy about this. The toddler is not happy in general, and really needs to go to sleep, but I don't have the time to help him lie down, without disrupting the baby again, which I don't want to do, and is the toddler drinking my Diet Pepsi? Stop it! Why can't he have mercy on me?!
At some point toddler places a megablock on my foot, and tries to stand on it! "Stop it! Just stop it!" I yell at the toddler, shoving him away. I begin to cry, and it's not just my foot. Tears falling down my face. Two people in audience, and do either of them care? Nope. Nobody cares. I'm never alone, but I'm completely alone. "Cry." the toddler notices. Thank goodness, I think. Maybe he'll be nice to me now. He climbs up on the couch next to me, and... proceeds to poke at my face. "Eyebrow."
I have to go to the bathroom. I lay the baby on the bathroom rug, and keep the door propped open, so the toddler can come in if he wants to. He tells me, "Bye bye," and closes the bathroom door, successfully locking himself out. I want to smile. The baby is happily chewing on a foam letter. I hear the toddler in the hallway trying to climb into the baby's walker, which happens regularly. He's stuck, yelling "Stuck!" and crying. I feel smug about it, very much thinking, "I told you so." But then I imagine him trying to get himself out, re-breaking his femur, and so I hurry and finish to go and save him.
He's fine. He got out on his own. I lay the baby down in the living room to continue chewing on his foam letter. It's a mess. I know I'll feel better if I can clean it. Someone knocks on the door. Are my eyes still red from crying? Still have spit-up all over my shirt?
I open the door and step outside, closing the door behind me, to keep the cat in. It's the Spanish Elders. I tell them who in the building speaks Spanish, and let them know that if there's anything we can ever do to help them, we will.
The baby is finally ready to go to sleep, so I put him down. I convince the toddler to help me clean up. He picks out a book, and I read it to him in bed, as is the routine. He always screams when I close the door for him, like it's a surprise, every single time.
It's blessed naptime. I wrote this, and yes, the baby has just stirred back awake.
And I have work tonight.
No rest for the wicked.

The Memory of Moments

You’ve been thinking of memories

Of a place that you’ve been –

A place that, unfortunately,

You’ll likely never get to again.

Little flashbacks, you’re having,

Of inconsequential things.

Walking out of a grocery store off main,

Down the road from construction, and doors.

It’s dancing in a living room one night

On a faded brown carpet

With a large singed portion

Which the Elders burned before your time.

It’s mounting a snow heap,

Feeling victorious in heavy snow boots,

Laughing through wind blowing sideways

Just before a dinner appointment.

It’s feeling your fleece lined leggings

Underneath your skirt,

Remembering the feeling of heavy socks

Worn over top, and up the calf.

It’s a cathedral on a hill,

Dinner in an Indian restaurant,

Waiting in line at a Subway,

Discovering Bulk Barn for that first time.

Buying stamps and looking at cards

Down the road from the poutine joint.

Seeing the weather broadcasted in Celsius

To the apartment lobby in the morning.

It’s eating lunch under that tree.

It must have been a Saturday,

Because there were no kids at the school.

We took our shoes off. I wanted to cry.

It’s that centipede we found in our apartment.

That frog I caught in my scripture case.

Our umbrella flipping upside down in the rain,

And our running back for home and the car, laughing.

It’s that conversation with that bus driver.

It’s that first day emailing home in the library.

It was discovering a new city,

And pushing cars out of snowbanks.

It’s that vague recollection of ringing a buzzer

To see if someone was home.

They weren’t. We left.

But I remember ringing that buzzer.

These are memories that I cannot share.

No one will know

The places that I have been.

The feelings that I have had.

I long to visit the places of the past,

Though I fear that this longing

Will never be satiated,

As I will never be right there again.

It will never be quite the same.

I realized this in the middle of the night.

A crying baby needed me.

A bottle was given.

A diaper needed changing.

I placed him on a changing table

And stretched, my hands to the ceiling.

He stretched too,

An exact mirror image of me.

I will never be here again.

These moments no camera will record.

The moments that open your eyes,

When you experience things deeply.

My past is just that. My own.

It will never be known.

I can show you the streets, but to you,

They will only be fresh, new things.

I can’t show you my heart.

I can’t show you the fog that rolled in.

How surreal it was when I wrote it

In a dark room, under its immaterial glow.

They are memories of moments.

They are unknowable, but to me.

The longing ache I feel for that past

Can never be fully redeemed. 

Hanukkah for Christmas

I hate Christmas - for the same reason I hate multi-level marketing schemes. Intense feelings of guilt and obligation, with only the minority of people actually getting anything out of it. But frankly, I think it's because we're doing Christmas all wrong.

Christmas is, hypothetically, supposed to celebrate the birth of Christ. It's a time to imagine your god in infant form, unable to ask anything of you, and only there to give you warm feelings - warm feelings which you MUST feel! It's the season! He doesn't judge. He doesn't speak. He's the easiest Christ for all the Christians in the world to get behind. But you know what? That's not all bad. I actually am okay celebrating Christ's birthday. That's okay. He was born in April, though, but why not take the Winter Solstice and make that commemorate the birth of Christ...

With Christmas trees. Because Christ, born in Bethlehem, would have loved himself a nicely decorated tinsel pine tree with holly berries. Mmmm... And gingerbread. Because that was his favorite food, definitely, when he was an infant. The holy family all gathered round that manger like that. With hot chocolate. And cider. 

And candy canes. Because he was the good shepherd, and candy canes are shaped like a shepherd's staff, right? Thank goodness we can make some kind of a religious tie there, without resorting to paganism... Every time I see those candy canes, I think about the red and white stripes which symbolize all kinds of stuff about Jesus. Candy canes. Jesus. Thinking about Him every time. 

SANTA. Oh my goodness. Can I tell you how much I just love everything Santa? Sticking his jolly fat face in the middle of everything. Seriously. He brings gifts, like the three wise men, who, actually, weren't even there for a couple of years, and....

Just stop. Stop. Everything. Stop it. 

I had to give my husband a disclaimer before I married him, that I was not going to be the woman who celebrated Christmas. I wasn't going to lie to my children, to sell them into the materialism of it all. The only trouble, though, is knowing HOW to celebrate. Because, unfortunately, such a huge deal is made about Christmas, that you can't NOT celebrate it. 

How depressed would my children be if they went to school and had to listen to their friends talk about all the STUFF they got for Christmas, if they didn't get anything? How would they feel? As a child, I would feel ridiculously jealous, because STUFF. Stuff is golden. And that's what Christmas ultimately turns into, for kids. Because they're kids. Kids love Jesus, but unless Jesus is bringing them that push-bike, he's going to come in second. You can't blame their testimonies. Santa is huge and loud, and Christ doesn't intrude. He's an infant, for heavens sake.

I don't want to confuse my children. But to an extent, no matter what I do, they will be confused. If I played along, they would be confused about Santa vs Jesus - a matter I'm not willing to negotiate on. (Thou shalt have no other gods before me.) If I don't play along, which I am choosing, I have to explain to my children why all their friends and cousins are believing in this red fat man who sneaks into their house in the middle of the night with flying reindeer. I have to explain it to them, and somehow convince them not to ruin it for everyone else.

Bless my heart! What to do? This has been a source of confusion and angst for me for years. (I wrote an essay on it, my first year of college!) I want my children to be happy, but I also want them to know what's what, and what's really important. What matters!

And I think I've come to an answer.

We're Jewish. Not SUPER technically, but enough, that we can make this work. My great (great?) grandparents, on my mother's mother's side were married in a British Israelite wedding. It's the mother's side that counts, which makes me Jewish, as well as my children. (My daughters' children can claim the same privilege, but not my sons' children.) (They are also uncircumcised, and we're eating pork for Thanksgiving from now on, so obviously we're not very good at this.) BUT! Hanukkah doesn't play Santa. Hanukkah is religious. For real. I admire them deeply, and hope my desire to join them isn't an offense. Because they don't cloud their holiday over with secular garbage, and religion is all I want out of my religious holidays.

Hanukkah is a celebration otherwise known as the Feast of Dedication. It celebrates the Jewish re-dedication of the temple, after reclaiming it from the Greeks, who had desecrated it with unholy sacrifices, etc. There's a whole bunch of additional story about the Jews relighting the menorah in the temple, but only having enough oil for one day - though the menorah miraculously burned for 8 days. There is no scriptural evidence of this event, in the Maccabees, however, and it may very well have been made up - as it also changes the shape and form of the original menorah to incorporate 8 days, which, to me, is questionable, as it is for several Jewish sects, who don't agree with the story as well. Yup. But that bit's not important for me.

But the Feast of Dedication. We know Christ celebrated it. It is full of delicious symbolism. Plus, nothing wrong with celebrating reclaiming your temple and re-dedicating it to God. And I realized, that's very much how I feel about Christmas. Just substitute "Santa" with "Greek" and you might see what I see. So I will choose to dedicate my home, once again, to Christ, for Christmas. We'll do gifts. Perhaps we'll do one gift a night for 8 nights, by candlelight. It'll be calm. No wrapping paper flying. Not 8 big gifts, because that's not the point. 

We're still working through the details - mostly just how to get everybody on board with ALLOWING us to celebrate Christmas in the way that we feel is most appropriate. It's eclectic. It's a work in progress. But there you have it! Be warned!

If Jesus Was a Gun-Owner

If Jesus was a gun-owner,

Would He have one gun, or three?

Would He have a Smith and Wesson,

A Remington, or Benelli?

Would Jesus open carry,

Or would He carry securely hid?

Would He tote it under arm, or hip,

Or thigh, just to be hip?

Would Jesus take up hunting,

Or prefer to target shoot?

Would He go out with friends, a drink or two,

Or to the desert, someplace offshoot?

Would He join the NRA,

Or host a class for concealed carry?

How often would He clean his gun, buy bullets, or...

Hold up, Nelly!

I don’t profess to know Him,

But I know a thing or two.

I’ve read the book a few more times,

And there’s something He wouldn’t do.

He wouldn’t own a gun, of course,

Designed in lethal taste.

He’d turn His cheek again

Before boasting about His “place.”

He’d be the last to argue

Fighting for civil defense.

“My rights!” He would not shout, but more,

“Trust God. He’ll do what’s best.”

He wouldn’t hunt. No, not for fun,

Or sport. No, I don’t blame Him.

He taught compassion, love, and, yes,

He loves them ‘cause He made them.

I’m not saying He’s vegetarian

Or vegan. No, just prudent.

His heart would take no pleasure

From killing for amusement.

He’d see the damage that guns cause

To life and pride in that market.

As our Prince of Peace and hope for man,

He wouldn’t own. Cathartic.

So if Jesus were a gun-owner,

I don’t think I’d recognize Him.

We could follow his example...

No? Alright. It’s just a whim.