Stupid Mormons vote for Bush

That's what was on the front page of the Washington Post. Ok, the headline was actually "Utah Town Has Question about President: "What's not to like?", but it might as well have been "Only Utah hicks are stupid enough to vote for our president--twice." The article starts out with a scene where a woman goes into a small diner in Randolph, Utah, and orders a patty melt with Dijon mustard on the side. That prompts a, "We get some weird ones" from the cook, and the counterman says after the customer leaves that he doesn't know what Dijon mustard is. Doesn't care to, either. That's how this article sets the scene. People who are so insulated from the world that they don't even know what Dijon mustard is, much less about Medicare and the War on Terror. And that's why they voted for Bush. Because they're ignert. And with all of the news around the world tonight, the Post puts them on the front page. Yeah, that's objective. I finished reading Katherine Graham's autobiography recently (her father bought the Post in the 30s, her husband ran it, and after his death, she brought it to the pinnacle of it's success during Watergate. Now her son, Don Graham, runs the newspaper), and I gotta say, it makes me worried about where we get our info. She talks about her personal relationship with LBJ, and how angry he was that the Post didn't come right out and endorse his candidacy for president. K. Graham insists that he should have been able to read between the lines of the newspaper, and realize that they were endorsing him, without having to come right out and make an official announcement. And yet she declares that she was entirely objective when it came to Watergate. Um, heLLO! Not that I'm saying that Nixon deserved to be defended, but the double standard and the hypocrisy is just a little much. Anyway, sorry for the political rant, but it kind of bugs me when the media picks out the most sterotypical hicks who are insulated from the world to say, "These are the only kind of morons who would support our President!" It would be as if they took pictures of hip, wealthy New Englanders who skiied all winter in their lodges in Vermont and said, "These are the only people smart enough to vote for John Kerry!" It's just offensive, all the way around. The funny thing is, I doubt the people in Randolph, if they even ever see this article, will care one way or the other. The Post is trying to make this huge point about their lifestyles, and they won't be bothered one bit by anything this newspaper prints. They'll just go on eating their patty melts, sans Dijon mustard, voting for the next Republican candidate. And they will go on having the gall to say that every bad thing that has happened in their life is not President Bush's fault. Wow. Such ignorance is astonishing, eh?
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I'm tired of thinking about it

I took Jacob to gymnastics today, and since mother's aren't allowed into the gym for fear we will be possessed by the spirit of Nadia Comaneci and try to vault off the vault horse thingie, break a nail and sue the place for pain and suffering, there was a gaggle of us moms in the antechamber, if you will. I like these women--they are fun, energetic, and involved in their kid's lives. One mom asked, "So, did you take Newsweek? Did you read that article about how little boys are failing in school these days?" No, I don't take Newsweek, because, you know, I hate the liberal media and want all pundits to go to hell. Ok, really, I just hate the clutter that a gaggle of magazines causes in my house. (Gaggle seems to be my word of the day, I suppose. I think it technically refers to some avarian species, but it seems to be fitting my purposes quite well today, don't you think? I wonder how many times I can use it one post!) Where was I? Oh, yes, magazines. A gaggle of 'em. Anyway, my friend went on to remark that today's public schools have spent so much time and energy trying to get girls to catch up and realize that they, too, can look just as cool as the boys in goggles (wow, that's almost like gaggle!) in chem class, they forgot to spend 2 second saying it to the poor boys "You can do math and science too!", and now everybody is just ADHD and high on Ritalin, which of course makes everybody depressed, and how can you learn about geese, gaggle like or otherwise when you are thinking deep, profound, depressiong thoughts about mortality while bouncing off the walls at the same time? Darn those teachers, when are they going to get it right? Ok, so our sons are headed for a life of depression, ADHD, and illiteracy. oh NO! But here's the thing. I recently read another study somewhere (probably in that paragon of scientific findings, "Parent" magazine) that boys usually graduate from high school and set off for college feeling invincible, whereas the girls are the ones whimpering in the corner, just needing to be loved. The incidence of depression in adulthood is also apparantly much higher for women than for men, and the seeds of that seem to be planted in highschool. Ok, so it's our DAUGHTERS who are headed for a life of depression and, um, listening to Depeche Mode in the dark with their eyes closed, swaying to the beat and wafting incense through the air. At least they'll be literate, though. (Wait--does anybody listen to Depeche Mode anymore? What happened to those guys, anyway. Were they even guys?) All of this means one thing, really--our kids are doomed. Somehow, though, I don't buy it, or at least I can't get all that excited about it. My parents admitted that by the time I came along, I was lucky to be alive at the end of the day. No namby pamby things like nap schedules or structured play time for me, no sir. They would basically throw some food my way sometimes, hope I would find it amongst the mess, and go on with the task of trying to make sure the house didn't fall down while raising 6 children. And, not to brag or anything, but I did turn out to be pretty literate. I can even spell fairly well. I also know cool words like "gaggle". So I'm just going to keep reading to my child, keep encouraging him in his pretend games (well, maybe not all of them ..ahem..), and let him swim and gymansticize his guts out without worrying about the pending doomage of his academic career. And if he does fail, I guess there's still always Depeche Mode. And gaggles.
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The Hiding Place and Forgiveness

I just finished reading "The Hiding Place", by Corrie Ten Boom. (Yes, I know that I just blogged about reading 'Mormon Enigma', which I'm still reading. I just took a break from the history to read "The Hiding Place", and well, I couldn't put it down and basically read it in 2 days. Sorry. I'm back to Emma now, I promise!) The Wiz told me it was one of those books that can change your life. I think she's right. For those of you who are not familiar with this book, a brief synopsis: A Dutch family is arrested for hiding Jews during WWII, and 2 sisters are eventually sent to a concentration camp. Through a series of small miracles, they are able to have a bible in their camp, and read from it every night. They preach the Word of God while they are living in Hell. And they feel God's love even as they are treated with hate. They bless those who curse them. They forgive those who imprisoned and tortured them, although the author admits that this was almost the one thing she could not do. When one of her guards seeks her out and asks her forgiveness for his horrid treatment of her, she falters. She manages it, though, and it is a powerful scene in the book. So, I'm thinking about all of this, and if I could have handled things that way these sisters did. Um, probably not. But I think that if I were alone, and if my life were just about me, it might be easier to be that way. But I'm not alone. My life is not just about me. I'm a mother. My life is largely about my son. It seems that it would be easier to forgive somebody if they hurt me, or even if they hurt somebody I cared deeply about, like a friend, or another family member. But if somebody tormented and tortured and ultimately murdered my child with hate, how does one forgive that? How does one tell a child who has been hurt that he has to move on, to forgive, and then also, as a mother, forgive that person too? If the hurt is slight enough, sometimes it's doable. If the hurt is deep, however, I tend to see red, and want to protect and defend my child. I imagine most mothers feel the same way. There's a story about a man who went to Iraq after Saddam Hussein was captured to survey things over there. He was led to a building which was said to house prisoners, enemies of the state. This man was told that the prison actually held only children, young people who were paying for their parent's crimes. The parents had spoken out against Saddam Hussein, so their children were then imprisoned. Sounds like an effective silencing tool to me. Oh, you won't torture me, you'll torture my kid instead? O.k., I'll keep quiet. It's not lost on me that many revolutions and massive political and social changes are started largely by radical student groups. They have less to lose, so they feel they can risk it all. And yet, forgiveness is vital to our survival as a civilized society, and Christ has told us in no uncertain terms that He expects us to forgive all. Again, seems simple enough when we are talking about just me. But again, my life is not about just me. I think to forgive somebody who has hurt a child, my child, may be the very hardest thing Christ could ever ask. I think I need to go give Jacob a hug.
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A tangible way to help

Despite what they call "donor fatigue", there are still lots of people from Hurricane Katrina who need some help. The rebuilding process, as you can imagine, is huge. I have felt very helpless throughout this whole thing, until we came across Family-to-Family's Sponsor Program. There you can sign up to sponsor a family that is still in need of basic supplies for a home: sheets, blankets, pillows, basic appliances, etc. They suggest that it need not be one family that takes on the load--get a playgroup, a churchgroup, the entire extended family together to sponsor a family. It's a tangible, personal way to help in a way that those of us who are quite distant from the tragedy were not previously able to do. Please consider sponsoring a family that is still struggling to get on their feet.
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Who do you love?

I'm just now getting around to reading, "Mormon Enigma: Emma Hale Smith," last month's reading for FMH. Ok, I'm a little slow, I know, but I had to get through the Book of Mormon, first. Anyway, I'm not that far along. I got through the preface, which was surprisingly revealing, and I've gotten past the intro, which was equally revealing. Now I'm past the first few pages of the book, and it definitely has my attention. It probably took me about 15 minutes to get through all of that, and I must have exclaimed to DH, "Hey, did you know that...." about 8 times. (Of course, the answer was always, "Oh, yeah, and then does the book mention anything about...." Sometimes it's hard being married to somebody who seems to know EVERYTHING.) Anyway, in my 15 minute introduction to this woman, I am hooked. I feel like I want to know all about her, everything, how she thought, what she said, what she ate for breakfast, etc. She went through amazing trials with her first husband, only to feel abandoned and betrayed by his friends (read Brigham Young). She then started a new life with a new husband and a basically new religion, only to have one of her children convert to Catholicism, and have her husband cheat on her and leave her to deal with his illigitimate child, whom she raised (Um, heLLO!) (*NOTE: The writing of this post was temporarily interupted when I realized that Jacob was spending WAY too long in the bathroom, and I went downstairs to a partially flooded bathroom and a naked boy who was gleefully stuffing toilet paper into the toilet. [Sigh]) So, in a weird way, Emma is becoming one of my heros. One Sunday School teacher referred to her as Mormonism's "drunken uncle that nobody wants to talk about." And yet, I think we should honor Emma much more than we do. As my SIL puts it: Poor Emma. I think that Emma is probably just one unsung female hero of the Restoration, and it gives me pause to consider that there are many others of whom I'm not aware. Any enlightening thougts on any such women? Do they fall into the same category as "Poor Emma?" And now that the flood is cleaned up, it looks like I have to relinquish the computer for some serious game playing. It's a sad, sad day, ladies, when you children discover comptuer games.
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A-cuppers unite, or why MMW is not edgy

We got snarked. Apparantly, we are just not edgy enough. Sadly, though, we are compared to Tales From the Crib when they were talking about boobs. Not that I have anything against Tales, it's just that the boobs were specifically mentioned. That's right. We are not edgy because we don't talk about breasts enough. That's the topic that the Snarker thinks is so edgy and cool. Perfect evidence that the Snarker is most certainly male. In this male dominated Bloggernacle, where the lawyers can't figure out why more Mormon women don't blog, and wonder why more women don't comment or post, people get all excited when another Mommy blog posts about boobs. Cleavage. Bazoombas. That's what counts. That's what it comes down to, ladies. Sad, sad, sad. What if you don't have any boobage to post about, huh? What if your very best feature on your entire body just happens to be your clavicles? (And there's only ONE permablogger in the bloggernacle who is man enough to write not about fleshy fat deposits around mammary glands, but about beautiful bone structure!) What are all the rest of us A-cuppers supposed to do, thank you very much? I think we should rise up and protest! Yes, let's PROTEST! Let's make our voices heard, let the Bloggernacle know that small breasted women are women too! We demand our rights! I'm not really sure what those rights would be, but dammit, if bouncy, buxom ladies are gettin' 'em, I want 'em too! Maybe we should sponsor some event, something that would raise funds for our cause. How about, um, a boob naming contest? Yeah, that could work. Let's get all the breast obsessed blogger-ites to write in what their most favorite breast names are. We could have themes, categories even. Media Cateogry: Thelma and Louise, Ren and Stimpy, or Pinky and the Brain. Religious: Urrim and Thummim. Cultural Icons: Calvin and Hobbes, Beavis and Butthead. To enter, you must pay MMW a zillion dollars. The winner gets a Bro.
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When to keep your mouth shut

So, my visiting teachers came over yesterday. I like these women. They are nice, fun, smart. Best of all, they actually come EVERY MONTH! I really appreciate them. One of them is the education counselor, and since I am the RS teacher, we talk about the lessons a lot. And since this year is Wilford Woodruff, we naturally started talking about polygamy, and how the manual is going to get around the whole Manifesto thing. The other sister said that this whole church history lesson she has been getting about JS this year, etc, was a little freaky, but wow, polygamy? Wilford Woodruff was a polygamist? Actually, yes, indeed he was. Then she said it. "But Joseph Smith wasn't a polygamist, was he?" Um.... Now, I know that FMH and T&S has talked about this before, but I'm going to bring it up again. What do you say when somebody says something like that? Do you burst her happy church history bubble? Do you fill her in on all of the funky church history stuff that she is missing? Do you let her know that indeed, JS was a polygamist, and every prophet after him was too, way up until George Albert Smith in 1945? I actually told her that yes, JS was absolutely a polygamist, and she said, "While he was married to Emma?" Um.... "Well, was he having sex with these women?" Um.... "Well, they were just all getting sealed to him because they didn't really understand the temple, right?" Well.... Then the counselor jumped in and said, "There was so much that they didn't understand back then, so there were a lot of people making a lot of mistakes. Don't you think that's right, Heather?" Yeah. Sure. Whatever. I think my visiting teacher was sufficiently freaked out, and we started talking about the Book of Mormon instead. Safe, easy stuff, right? "Wait, there are people who don't think JS wrote the Book of Mormon?' Um....
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Christmas Letters

All of my Christmas is basically down--the tree is stripped, ready to be put back in the box (yes, we did fake this year, and I'm actually a big fan, but I realize that debate is a post in and of itself, so let's just let it go, shall we?) The boxes for the ornaments, etc, are in my living room, waiting to be filled, and everything is taken down from my walls, tables, etc. Everything but the Christmas cards. They are still happily displayed all over my piano. I love Christmas cards. I love sending them, and I love getting them. I love picking out which font of "Season's Greetings" I get to put on the cheap cards from Target I send out. I love picking out which picture gets put on the cards, and I even like picking out the stationary I will write my letter on, and the envelope it will go in. No white envelope for me, oh no, I like the Christmasy ones, complete with Santa Claus stamp that makes everybody go "Hooray--it's a Christmas card!" And my Christmas letter is usually written right after Halloween. I love it. I know a woman who hates it. This woman is not a Scrooge. Far from it. She does Christmas extremely well, and is usually done with all of the busy stuff well ahead of schedule so that she can spend the holiday doing what is most important--focusing on family and the Savior. But when I say she doesn't like it, I am talking about the whole Christmas letter thing. She says it goes back to when she was having a particularly difficult time in her life. Ok, "particularly difficult" doesn't really begin to describe some of the things she has been through, but in the interest of TMI, we'll leave it there. She said it used to drive her crazy to get letters about how great everybody else's life was when she felt like she had nothing positive to say about hers. Her life has picked up since then, but she still hasn't worked up the courage, faith, stength, energy, whatever, to write her own letter, thinking about how painful some of those early letters were to her. So, my question is, how much of our lives should we share with others, either through Christmas letters, blogging, talks at church, whatever? Is it wrong to want to show off what our kids can do, their accomplishments, the happiness in our own lives even when we know that others are suffering? Or is there a way that we can share our own happiness when things go well in our lives and still be sensitive to other people's pain? I hope that it is the latter, because I already have next year's Christmas letter half written. I even picked out the stationary, 90% off at Target 3 days after Christmas. Gotta love it.
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A sister blog

Kaimi called it our competition, but I prefer to think of it as some more sisters, joining in the fun. It's a blog called Tales from the Crib. It's a good read--I'll put a link on the side bar when I don't have my family yelling at me to quit blogging already!
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Guest post from Abby

This is a guest post from Abby Bennett, who, gathering from her email address, is involved in those cool new shade shirts that are a must have for every Mormon woman. Am I right, Abby? Anyway, happy reading! This one is to cheer the down hearted Wiz. I am a regular mom. I have 2 girls, 3 and 18 months, and a boy, who I have most of his life, but give back to his real family after 6pm. I am also one of those tragic souls who was thwarted by nature from getting the families "skinny" genes. Therefore I am an exerciser. Now, I am not obsessed with regaining my high school pant size, but just maintaining cheek bones and a single chin. That said, I am also one who is plagued by exercise induced knee pain. After trying all the recommended ways to restore my limb to health I broke down and had knee surgery. Nothing serious, just clean up a little here, scrape a little there sort of thing. Everything went fine,( although I did feel very vulnerable in that little gown they make you wear. If they are operating on my knee, why am I as naked as Eve in the garden??? ). So home I went with a pair of crutches and the instructions to remove the bandage in three days. Three days pass slowly with 3 kids and a crutch laden mother, but we made it to the day of the wound unveiling. It was Saturday morning, and loaded up on prescription meds I was feeling fine. I crutched my way to the bathroom to, you know, go to the bathroom and my littlest girl followed me. ( I'm sure I am not alone in never being alone in the bathroom.) While I was sitting there I decided to take a peek at my knee under all that gauze and tape. It was really an opportune time. I was there and my knee wasn't hidden by knee length under clothes or pants. Perfect. So I unwound the bandage and took a quick look. Now I am not someone that has a problem with wounds. I grew up cattle ranching, and working for a Veterinarian, so I have seen my share of blood and guts, but for some reason the fact that it was my blood and my guts was a little disturbing. I suddenly felt faint. So I did what ever one knows to do when you feel faint. I put my head between my knees, and... I fainted. Next thing I remember, my husband is standing over me saying"WHAT are you DOING??!!" At the time I didn't know what I was doing. I found myself lying awkwardly on the floor. My head was crammed into the corner where the tub, wall ,and tile meet. My knee hurt, my head hurt, and yes; in the words of my three year old, my bum was naked. Oh the Humanity!!! Apparently I had been lying there for awhile. My DH thought that the baby had dropped something. ( Yeah, a 150 lb. Momma) So, after hearing nothing from me he sauntered down the hall to take a look. And there I was in all my glory. My exposed nether region facing the door. There is something that binds you closely to someone when the pull up your under ware as you lie on the floor in a heap. I have a greater love for my husband because of that not so simple act of charity. And the fact that he refrained from laughing until after he helped me to bed. I hope you all can have a good chuckle after reading this, and know that before you peek at a mortal wound, put a pillow on the floor just in case.
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How do You Rise Above?

Remember me? Probably not, but now that the holidays, bronchitis, and stomach flu have come and gone, I thought I might poke my head outside the confines of my home (through the magic of the internet) and reacquaint myself with our wonderful blog. I apologize to the Wiz and Heather for being so flaky!

After reading Heather’s post about Jacob’s heartbreaking outburst, I got thinking about my relationship with my oldest daughter. She is 7 ½ years old and is really for the most part very sweet and wonderfully helpful. However, in the last few months I’ve watched as the rosy magical vision of a young young child has begun to give way to a more realistic perspective.

I’m afraid that I don’t look so hot with her new vision and that suddenly I’m not the wonderful, all-knowing, infallible parent I once was in her eyes. Our relationship has changed and become much more contentious than it has ever been. She’s acting and speaking out when she’s upset and let’s face it, the Mom is an easy target. I realize this is my fault because instead of rising above the fray, I’m engaging her and thereby feeding the fire. On a rational level, I know that she loves me and is still pretty young to really understand what she’s doing and saying. I know that when she says things like "You made this the worst day ever!" Or "Why don’t you love me?" Or "It’s all YOUR fault!" Or "You lied, you said you would do this and you didn’t!" I should walk away and then approach her when we are both calm and rationally discuss the issues, but still hold her accountable for being rude and disrespectful.

Sounds like I know everything right? So, what’s the problem? Here’s the problem, it really hurts my feelings when I’m working so hard to be the very best Mom to her and yet I can’t seem to do anything right. As a result I don’t walk away, instead I react defensively and so it goes. For the record, I am 6 months pregnant and have never felt so busy and stretched in so many different directions. There’s a high probability that I’m probably just totally out of whack and completely overreacting; however, whatever the cause I need to get this resolved. So, I’m asking all you mothers who have dealt with this, how do you brace yourselves against the inevitable onslaught of criticism from those you’ve given everything in your power for?

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My son hates me

I've always heard other moms talk about it, the dreaded, "I hate you!" I don't think I ever actually said that to my parents (I thought it, of course, along with some other choice phrases!), so naturally I assumed that no child of mine would ever say that to me. I was wrong. Jacob and I were butting heads over something the other day, I'm not even sure what. It probably had to do with not playing with him, or some other motherly infraction, but I do remember telling him that I had to get in the shower, and then we were going to have lunch. He shouted, "NO!" I calmly picked up my towel, headed to the bathroom, and said, "I don't talk to little boys who shout." He screamed, "Well, I don't like mommies who take showers and eat lunch! I DON'T!" Then he started crying while I shut the bathroom door and started the shower, too stunned and angry to respond in any other way. While I was in the shower, Jacob further demonstrated his frustration with me by throwing a Hot Wheels car loop-the-loop thingie against the wall, breaking the toy and denting the wall. I was not pleased, and the angry conversations continued until finally Jacob completely melted down, and we rocked in the rocker and then I fed us both. It's amazing what food can do, isn't it? But still-- to think, my child doesn't like me? Me? ME? I'm his mother, his universe, the sun around which his life should orbit, the woman who gave him life. Not like me? Impossible! The episode blew over well enough, and he didn't actually say, "I HATE YOU", but what should I do the next time he pulls out this particular defense against me? When he says it, it makes me want to simultaneously smack him and burst into tears. Probably not the best reaction, all things considered. Any other moms out there with this problem? Maybe I should just carry food with me all the time, and whenever he melts down, I should just toss him a granola bar, like an animal. Wouldn't be the first time I felt like I was living in a zoo!
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A must read

This is a guest post from our frequent commenter "marian", and it's a good one! Haven't we all had experiences like this! First, let me introduce myself. I’m a mom of one incredibly active and very very strong-willed 2 year old son, Max, and we (Max, myself, and hubby) have just moved from a small apartment in NYC to a rather large and old house in the country. One thing to note is that our house, being very old, has what are called “registers” in the floor on the upstairs – these are basically holes in the floor with iron grates in them, which allows the heat to come up from the downstairs. On the downstairs side, there is an additional vent cover. Max and I have had a challenging last week or so (dad away on a business trip, Max waking up for the day at 4:30 am, etc.) and I'm very very tired and have had a bit too much of him. Which still doesn't totally excuse this, but whatever... The latest thing that is driving me nuts is that he is once again refusing to nap, which results in a complete mess of a child from when I finally give up on the nap until bedtime. The other afternoon, I was stretching him as long as possible (hoping that would result in a nap, but having a pretty good feeling that it wouldn’t) and I was doing that tired mommy "I'll just lie here on the couch and close my eyes while you play with that puzzle" when I was rudely awakened by Max coloring on my face with a marker. Luckily it was a washable one, but I was NOT happy. So I decided it was bedtime. I put him to bed, knowing full well that it wasn't going to work, and then headed back to the couch, threw a pillow over my head, and promptly fell asleep for 45 minutes. So I wake up and Max is yelling, and I know he hasn't gone to sleep. He starts to yell louder and harder, and I figure I'll get up and go check on him, that he probably has a dirty diaper. I step from my tv room into my kitchen, at which point I see Max hanging through the ceiling from the armpits down He had removed the register from his floor, kicked out the vent cover in the kitchen ceiling, and had then decided to climb through it, resulting in him being suspended over my kitchen table, screaming his lungs out. I was momentarily lost over what to do, but then decided it was better to stay below him than to take the time to run upstairs and pull him back up through the floor (I didn't know how long he'd been there and how long he'd last). So I grabbed his feet and talked him into dropping through the hole, at which point I caught him. Ohhhhh I'm such a horrible mother. And yes, he did have a dirty diaper. And yes, the floor vents are now screwed AND nailed into the floor. And yes, I don't think he'll live to see 3.
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Guest Post from New Blogger, Tracy M

This is a guest post from Tracy M, a.k.a Dandelion Mama. We like her, so we have invited her over here to blog with us, too. She's posting as a guest until we can get her permanently logged on, and we've asked her, as an introduction, to start with her conversion story. Welcome, Tracy! Notes from the Trenches: My Conversion It wasn’t until Jeffrey slid from my body with that final great push and they set his slippery body on my tummy that I knew God was for real. Years of searching fell away as I looked in awe and wonder at my first child, and I knew, I knew with all my heart and soul, that there was a God. That is the memory I have of my first son’s birth. Not the pain, not the 36 hours of labor and 3 hours of crazy pushing, not the sheer exhaustion of labor and delivery- that too all fell away, and I sobbed and wept, yes for my son, but really it was for God. For years, I had searched for answers. Searched in places I dare not tell anyone about without making myself look like a lunatic, and places that were regular and simple. Never did find anything that rang true, deep inside, as I knew truth must. There is not a church or school of thought I didn’t check out, delve into, or at least consider for a moment, but still I wandered, unsatisfied, and looking for... for something. There was no religious or spiritual training at all in my home growing up- my parents are good people, but faith in anything other than themselves is not a strong suit for either of them. Blame it on California hippies. Since I was stumbling around in the proverbial dark, I made some crummy choices, which I will spare. It took over fifteen years of getting mad at God and yelling and fighting and cursing and crying and trying not to care about a God I wasn’t sure was even real, before that baby finally saved my soul. My husband already had a strong faith, but it was a unique and personal faith wrought from trial and error, somewhat parallel to my path. After Jeffrey’s birth, we agreed that we wanted to give our children more than we had. We also knew that the California, free-thought, try anything once, let-others-fly-away culture we grew up in wasn’t going to fly for us anymore. So we moved. Far away. To Washington, with an eight-month old, a bid on a house we had never seen, and only a sort-of promise of a job. Big gamble or big leap of faith, all depends on your point of view. Looking back, it was faith that brought us here, because here is where we found our answers. One Sunday, out of the blue, I went to the local Mormon Church to hear the musical program for the fourth of July. I took Jeffrey with me, and sat way in the back, didn’t talk to anyone, and left right after it was over. But something stuck with me. It was a fast and testimony meeting, and I was absolutely amazed at the young people who got up and talked. How could these young kids know so much, and talk about it as though they knew it, and be so, so...young? What I left the meeting with was a feeling that “something is happening at this place, and I don’t know what it is, but its right”. What I hoped for for my children was happening in that building and I wanted to know more about it. I went the next Sunday, and the next and I never missed another one. Two months after Independence Day, I walked up to the missionaries after Sacrament, introduced myself and asked what I had to do to be baptized. I still remember the looks on their faces (and I still get letters from both of them). After they told me about the lessons, I asked if we really needed to do that, because I already knew what I wanted. They just laughed. So in October, I was baptized, with the blessing of my husband, but not the rest of my or his family. Oh well. I actually kept my membership a secret from my mother for a long time, simply because I knew what would happen. And when I finally told her, I was right. She gave me a choice between her or the Church- ugh. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, but the choice was incredibly easy to make, considering. Anyway, it all worked out, and I have both of them! My husband is now a priesthood holder, and we’re planning to be sealed in about two months, just shy of the birth of our third child. So next time you are grumpy at a Fast & Testimony meeting, think of the searching mother in the back, getting everything she has been hoping for from the mouth of your babe, up there at the podium. That’s how I joined you all in the trenches, and became part of the Mormon Mommy Wars.
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