Motherhood Changes You

I read an article the other day about how when women are pregnant, cells from the fetus work their way through a woman's body and stay there even after she gives birth to the baby, becoming part of major organs like her heart and her brain. Scientists believe this is a common phenomenon, and they've done several studies where they've found Y chromosome cells (the man cells) in the bodies of women who have given birth to sons.

Now, I'm not a scientist, so I don't really understand how all of it works, but I do understand this:
Motherhood changes you. It changes your heart and your mind and every little part of you.

I often think about the person I was "before." I'd be lying if I didn't admit that sometimes I yearn to go back to her. That woman could think! She had brain cells! She had the smarts! She had some confidence! She rarely went two days without showering!

I am in a time of life at the moment where motherhood sucks the life out of me. My children are small and they require so much. I am blessed with a husband who does more than his fair share of the work, but there is still so much asked of me on any given day. I feel like I lose intelligence daily--I find myself unable to recall facts I once know--like the order of operations or basic rules of grammar. My nerves are so fried I don't know if I will ever be whole again. Threenagers, you know? 

I am jealous of the women who say they love every minute of motherhood, just like I'm jealous of the women who can pop out babies with little more than one doctor's appointment a month and some slight nausea.

Does the fact that sometimes I fiercely dislike motherhood mean that I don't love being a mom? NO.

I try not to complain about being a mother. I am overwhelmingly grateful for this calling in my life, and I wouldn't trade being a stay-at-home mom for any fancy, famous career. I guess I'm just trying to find balance on that fine line between loving what I do and being genuine about how much it stinks sometimes.

Before I was a mom, I wanted to travel the world. I wanted to see it all.
Now, I can barely make it through a two-day anniversary getaway because I miss my kids too much.
Do I still want to travel? Yes.
But not too far right now, because taking my kids with me doesn't seem like all that much fun either.

Before I was a mom, I had dreams about getting all sorts of educational degrees.
Now, it takes me a month to get through any "heavy" reading.
Do I still want to attend graduate school? Absolutely.
But I have to get my brain back and get my kids through elementary school first.

Before I was a mom, I wanted to write best-selling novels that would change the world.
Now, when I have a minute to myself, I'm reading or sleeping.
Do I still have stories in my head? Oh, so many of them!
But sometimes there are more important things to do in a day. Like laundry. Because one's children can't run around naked, even if their mother is writing a masterpiece.

Before I was a mom, I thought I was so tired.
Now, I fight through fatigue on a daily, hourly, minute-by-minute basis.
Do I think I wasn't tired then? No. I was tired then! I'm just more tired now.
But midnight snuggles and "Mom, I need a cuddle"s are so much better than being well rested.

Before I was a mom, I thought I understood everything.
Now, I understand that there are so many facets of life to be understood and that, even in the hereafter, there are things I may never know.
Do I still want answers? Yes.
But I've learned that sometimes not knowing can be worth it.

Before I was a mom, I thought I was someone.
Now, I understand that there is so much more to me because I am a wife and mother.
Do I still have hopes and dreams beyond making it to naptime? Oh, yes. Oh yes oh yes oh yes!
But I also am coming to understand that you don't have to "be someone" before you become a wife and a mother. You can become someone better as you do it with someone else to help you along the journey.

I have realized that the times I get most frustrated with being a mom are the times when I have something else I want to be doing and my children have a different agenda for our day. When I take a step back, I realize that my "this stinks!" moments are usually because of my own selfishness. And it is hard to let go of those things that I think are important to me to take care of the needs of my little ones. I want to fully acknowledge that. But, in letting go of the things that I think make me me, I gain something better in the process. Sacrifice is never really a sacrifice, because there are always greater blessings in the giving up than in the giving in.

A few weeks before I left on my mission, I was talking with a friend and he suddenly paused, looked at me, and said. "Rinda, I'm so jealous. You're about to learn more about yourself in the next few months than you can in any other way."

And you know what? He was right.
Then.

But now, when I see pregnant mothers, I think, "I'm so jealous. You're about to learn more about yourself than you can in any other way."

And then pudgy, dirty little hands grab at me and I think about how this is a mission that never ends.

It's true. Motherhood changes you.

The Least of These

My current assigned calling, or job, in my church is to work with the children. I serve in what is called the Primary Presidency, which is a group of four women asked to make sure that our church's program for children ages 18 months to 12 years old runs (I would say smoothly, but as everyone who has worked with children knows, there is bumpy and there is less bumpy and then there are rocky roads and then there are Himalayan hiking trails).

When I was first asked to serve in the Primary, I was terrified. Working with children was my mom's and my sister's thing, not mine. Heck, I can barely handle my own two children. But I'm not one to say no when the Lord asks me to do something, so I said yes. Seven months later and I am in love. This just might be my favorite church assignment that I've ever had.

Sure, Sundays are difficult, and I often feel that I'm in over my head and as my brother would say, "tu no sabes nada." (aka, you know nothing!)

But...

There are some Sundays that--that-- well, there are just some Sundays that I know I am where I am supposed to be.

We have a neighbor who has recently taken three foster care children into her home. They have joined our Primary and we are so excited to have their beautiful faces smiling at us on Sundays. Yesterday was their second time attending Primary with us.  I felt so terrible the first week because I only remembered one child's name out of the three. All week I reminded myself of the second child's name and practiced it so that I knew I had it correct for her when I saw her on Sunday.

She was sitting on the back row, near the isle, happily singing and interacting with her new friends. On one of my numerous trips to the back door to make copies, do hall patrol, and be on bathroom duty, I knelt down by her chair and whispered, "Hi, Katie*, how are you doing today?"

She looked at me and her eyes got huge, "You know my name?" she asked, incredulous.

I swallowed, giving myself a chance to regain my composure, and said, "Yes, sweetheart, I know your name. I felt bad that I got your name wrong last week, so I've been practicing all week to make sure I got it right."

Without hesitation, she threw her arms around my neck and hugged me tight, the best way she knew to show me how she felt.

I remembered her name.
It was such a small, small thing.
It meant the world to her.

I was instantly transported back to one of the hardest moments on my mission. We had been invited to eat dinner with a less-active sister that we'd been working with for a month or so. She had two daughters and an infant son. It was not a happy home. This sister was very unkind to her daughters and it was clear that the baby was given all the love and attention (of which there was very little) available in the home.

During that particular dinner, I sat across from one of the little girls. She was wary of strangers and people in general and it was clear that she hadn't felt kindness from an adult in a very long time. I smiled at her every time I caught her looking at me. My arms ached to hold her and hug her and whisper in her ear how very much she was worth to our Heavenly Father--but, due to the missionary rules that I promised Heavenly Father I would obey, I was not allowed to pick her up, hold her, or do much to provide a gentle and a loving touch.

My heart broke even further, then, when she slipped off her chair and came around the table and tried to sit on my lap.

Trying desperately to explain to her that I wanted to hold her but I couldn't, I had to push her down as she attempted several times to climb up. I tried to give her a side hug, but every time I did she took advantage to try and settle into my lap.

Oh, how she cried.

Oh, how I wanted to!

I felt powerless. I wonder sometimes if maybe I should have just broken the rules and held her. Knowing her mother and grandmother, who would have taken advantage and probably reported me for something I did not do, I know that obedience was the correct course of action.

I pray that in the six years since that awful dinner appointment that someone has been able to show that little girl love. True love--the love of a Diety and values her so much that He gave His only begotten son--and the love of an older brother that willingly gave his life so that he could know all the aches of her small heart.

Every child deserves love. EVERY child.

When Katie threw her arms around my neck yesterday, I hugged her back as tight as I could, grateful that this time I could do what I could not do that first time. And in my head I heard the words whispered,

"If ye have done it until the least of these...ye have done it unto me."

photo cred: http://cslewis.drzeus.net/forums/viewtopic.php?f=9&t=8163&start=15

*names have been changed

Blanching and Blessings

This past week I finally finished up the Fruit Preservation Project 2015. I didn't actually preserve all that much fruit, but it felt like it. This year I picked all of our fruit off a kindly neighbor's in-laws trees, then turned a bushel of pears and a box of summer apples into 11 quarts of pears, 7 quarts of applesauce, two large batches of fruit leather, and over 30 fruit squeezies (the only way my daughter will eat fruit). To serious canners, this doesn't seem like much. Granted, this was a "light" year for us also, but for someone who is only in her third canning season, it still seemed a monumental task.

One of my favorite things about canning season is the time that I get to spend with my mother-in-law. For whatever reason, we didn't can anything while I was growing up. We did lots of other things, and my mother equipped me with many superb life skills, but making applesauce wasn't one of them. Probably because I'm not a big fan of applesauce.

My husband, however, loves applesauce. He especially loves to dip Cheetos in applesauce.
Don't knock it 'til you've tried it.

Before Stephanie taught me how to preserve fruit, I had no idea what "blanching" was. For us, it is the first step in the process (after picking the fruit and letting it ripen).

Here's the Wikipedia term for the culinaryily illiterate, like me:

"Blanching is a cooking process wherein the food substance, usually a vegetable or fruit, is plunged into boiling water, removed after a brief, timed interval, and finally plunged into iced water or placed under cold running water (shocking or refreshing) to halt the cooking process."

Because I picked our fruit myself from trees that hadn't been treated (or touched, really), some of it looked pretty rough. I used the worst-looking ones for fruit leather and squeezie puree. I wasn't sure we would get any "whole" halves out of the bunch. I was amazed, however, that after an appropriate amount of blanching time, the skins came of easily and for the most part, the fruit underneath was white and pure. Sure, there were a few pears that took a little more rubbing to get the bruises off, and some where the core was just plain rotten, but for the most part, blanching took care of the impurities.

As I was blanching pear after pear this year, I thought about how our Heavenly Father uses the same process on us. Sometimes we look a little bruised, battered and scratched on the outside. It's hard to believe there could be anything worthwhile under our skin. That's when Heavenly Father plunges us into boiling water--He gives us trials, tests, and challenges. Sometimes it just feels like all we are doing is swimming in hot water, but after a time we are pulled out--and then comes another "shock." The cold water brings another trial, and if it works, we become humble enough to be easily changed. That outer skin and the natural man slips away with a little twisting and rubbing.

It isn't pleasant for us, but once the process is said and done, we are in a better state than we were before and the blanching becomes a blessing, and the sweet fruit of those trials can be preserved for years to come.