On Motherhood

One of my dear friends sent me a link to this blog post a few days ago.  You'll either love it or hate it.  I loved it.

A Letter To Young Mothers

Dear Young Mothers Everywhere—

I was one of you once and I know how hard it is.

Motherhood has to be the hardest job on the planet but I think it is getting harder. Not harder in the it-hurts-to-push-this-baby-out sort of way. Not harder in the must-lug-gallons-of-water-to-the-stove sort of way. Not harder in the pray-my-children-survive-the-polio-epidemic sort of way. No. In many ways, motherhood has gotten considerably easier. Medical advances and indoor plumbing and labor saving devices have done wonders for the daily life of the average mother. These advances have made life easier and given us free time and kept us from looking like worn out pieces of beef jerky by the time we are 40. But they have come with a cost and that cost is driving us crazy.

I had my first child in 1990. Back then I was faced with a few choices: Natural childbirth vs. intervention, breast vs. bottle, stay-at-home vs. work, and cloth vs. disposable. That was it. For me, the choices were easy. There were not categories and subcategories and sub-subcategories. There was no internet to tell you the pros and cons of each decision you made. You just did life. You just lived.

Even then, in these most basic of decisions, people could get defensive. It wasn't all fun and games. There were awkward moments. I held to my mothering principles with much more vigor than I should have. I failed to be as gracious to those who chose a different path . . . or had the path chosen for them. But looking back that seems rather mild compared to the coming storm.

Fast forward a few years and the Great Parenting Debates took over. For the first time I started to see parents treating each other with absolute scorn. No longer were women just a little defensive over their choices. What came next was out and out war.

Parenting programs took over churches. Cultural cliques were formed overnight. Parenthood, and motherhood by extension, became a matter of "doing it right." Schedules and disciplines and programs ruled the day and your success was judged by the behavior of your children. Those who succeeded at the program gloated in their success and gave out exhausting and exalted advice, all with an air of superiority and self-righteousness. Those who just couldn't get with the program were left feeling like desperate failures as parents.

By 1996 I had 4 kids who were as poor at following programs as I was at implementing them. Our life was just . .  well . . . chaos. But it was fun chaos, most of the time. I do remember on more than one occasion being totally overwhelmed and wanting to run off to Montana . . . ALONE, and even once when I actually wished I were deaf, but looking back, I do not have one single regret that I failed to get with the program.

Fast forward to today. I have lots and lots of friends on Facebook who are young moms or young moms-to-be. The choices they have before them are astronomical. The websites, the mommy blogs, Pinterest (oh EVIL Pinterest). The stakes are high. The expectations are huge. The consequences of every little decision are supposedly so dire. At least that is what they say.

Somewhere along the way we began to believe a lie. And it is a LIE FROM THE PIT OF HELL. The lie that there is one right way to be a mother. The lie that we must make every RIGHT decision or the consequences will be catastrophic. The lie that we can control our children's lives. The lie that being a failure as a mother is a fate worse than death.

Run, I say, RUN to pick up your Bible. Turn to Micah 6:8 and read aloud what it says. "He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what does The Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God."

No mention of childbirth techniques or clever birth announcements. No mention of diapers, cloth or not. No mention of schedules. No mention of highchair manners. No mention of education. No mention of medical advances or food sources. No mention of anything specific at all.

God does not require of you to be a perfect mother. The minute you begin to gloat over your successes or wallow in your failures you are using the wrong measuring stick.

So if you want to put your baby in all organic diapers and grow and make your own baby food, go right ahead. If you just gave your toddler a can of cold Spaghetti-os for lunch, no problem, you are in good company (even if no one else admits it). If you can homeschool with delight and your kids thrive in the environment, good for you. If you feel that a professional teacher may be a better choice for your child, you may be right. If you are concerned about vaccines and decide to withhold them, fine. If you are concerned about communicable diseases and feel that having immunizations are in the best interest of your children, go for it.

We are limited and finite and can only do so much. God created us with different strengths and weaknesses, gives us different resources, places us in different circumstances. This one-size-fits-all-robot-Stepford-mom stuff is robbing us of our joy and pulling us away from what we were created to do: To do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with our God.

With sympathetic love-

A Worn Out Mom and Kindred Spirit

How Do You Know?

Why the sudden return to blogging?  I have no idea.  Maybe it's because I now spend vast amounts of brain power writing about cancer, which we all know is utterly fulfilling.  I think I just need a place to throw out all the other thoughts that keep me up at night, however unappealing they may be (see last weeks post on a song that was sung at the Academy Awards.  My mom was way proud of me for that one).  It's actually kind of liberating to write on a blog that only has 3 followers.  Seriously.  You should try it sometime.

Today's topic is a little less artificial superficial than the last one.  But it's something that I JUST CAN'T STOP thinking about.  And here it is.  How do you know when you're done, you know, having kids?  I mean, I've spent the last year or so thinking I was done.  SO done.  Because more often than not, it's a miracle when I make it an entire day without totally losing my crap.  Not because my kids are so horribly behaved or anything (with the exception of Peanut Baby, who regularly tempts me to hang her upside down by her pinky toe for extended periods of time).  It's more because I'm so overwhelmed with all the stuff they have going on.  We are in the car every day from the moment school gets out until 9:45 pm.  Okay, I know what you're thinking.  Helloooo!  Don't have them participate in so many activities!  Problem solved.  But it doesn't really work like that for us.  Not to mention that if they weren't doing so many extracurriculars, they'd be running around the house like wild banchee's.  Believe me.  We're a psychotherapist's dream family.  Whichever chromosome is responsible for ADD has like, quadrupled itself in our kids.  Which leads me to my next issue.  There's not a chance in Hell that we'd suddenly be able to produce a calm child.  We're 0 for 4, so it's not like we'd be holding our breath or anything.  But I seriously don't know if I could handle it.  Then again, I remember thinking that before we had our 2nd child.  And then again before we had our 3rd child.  And AGAIN before our 4th!  So, maybe it's just me.  Which leads me to another issue.  My body sucks at being pregnant.  Last time, if you recall, it decided at 34 weeks that being pregnant pretty much blew.  I know I'd spend 9 months totally stressed about the possibility of my pancreas and uterus backing out of the deal again and winding up with another itty bitty.  I definitely prefer my babies to be larger than dwarf hamsters.

But you guys, I can't get over the idea of it really being...over.  We've done the whole pray and search for an answer thing.  And not that I don't believe it's a good route to take, but so far my answer has been, "you decide".  And, you know, He's right.  We've done a decent job of procreating, so I wouldn't feel guilty or anything if we opted to bow out this time.  We have multiplied and replen-i-shed.  I think I just want another one.  But here's my question.  Does that nagging feeling ever go away?  Do you ever really feel complete?  Is there a point where you can let go and not be terrified that you'll regret that decision some day?  Come on internetz (all 3 of you)!  Give me something to work with!

Boobs Are Offensive...

I'm not into Hollywood.  I never watch the Academy Awards in it's entirety.  But last night, in an effort to escape from cancer, which has taken center stage as of lately, I watched it.  I don't think I've ever as much as smiled at a joke or jab thrown by someone hosting the Oscars.  But Seth Macfarlane was absolutely brilliant last night.  And coming from someone who is totally unfamiliar with Family Guy humor, that's saying a lot.  It was funny and witty and even had a few moments where some of those Hollywood super stars seemed...relatable.  So, I was mystified this morning while reading some of the headlines of my favorite news websites claiming that Macfarlane was a flop.  That he was racist.  That his jokes were SEXIST!  I went from site to site and saw the same critiques over and over again.  I don't get it.  Weren't we all watching the same awards show last night?  Did I miss something?  I mean, you guys, HOW could you not have loved the song, "we saw your boobs"?  More importantly, how could you have found it offensive???  He sang a song about something that was very true.  We saw their boobs!  

Who are these people who can't find the humor and satire in this?  Oh, right.  Feminists.  Here's the thing.  I'm kind of a feminist myself in a lot of ways.  I don't like wearing a dress to church.  I don't like the fact that women are consistently paid less than men for doing exactly the same job.  I want my daughters to grow up knowing that they are as important and valuable to society as my sons.  That's feminism to me.  But the people who are offended by a song about boobs are lunatic fringe feminists.  Because, um, women have boobs.  There are difference between men and women that are simply unchangeable.  That's one of them.  So it's absurd to me that any woman would be offended by someone pointing that out.  Except that Macfarlane wasn't pointing it out in a general sense, he was pointing out the fact that many of the young actresses who attended the show last night, had at some point made the decision to go bare chested in front of a camera, and then signed on the the dotted line saying that it was okay for the film to be released to the public.  So, it's offensive to sing about having seen their boobs in a movie but it's not offensive that they did it in the first place?  It's a fact.  Sex sells.  It always has and it always will.  If the critics of the show last night were true feminists, wouldn't they be more interested in actual equality?  When a joke about boobs is made, going nuts and crying "sexism" is exactly what undermines women's ability to achieve true equality.  We're tough.  We can take a joke.  We don't want to be treated like little china dolls, right?  Not to mention the fact that many of the actresses mentioned in the song were in on the whole thing.  It was pre-recorded.  Their reactions were scripted.  

Maybe I was hard up for entertainment last night but I thought the whole thing was great.  Everything except Anne Hathaway's dress.  You could totally see her boobs!  Oh, wait, that was a sexist comment.  Sorry.

Cancer is an Attention Whore

My brother has cancer.  My dad has cancer.  Apparently cancer is determined to be the center of attention right now.  If you'd like to follow my family's cancer journey click here.  If, however, you have fond feelings towards cancer, I would encourage you not to read.  Me and cancer aren't exactly seeing eye to eye right now.  

Of Boobs and Blogs

I've spent the last three months or so going back and forth about whether or not to continue this blog.  The time factor is big.  Huge, actually.  On the average day, I usually end up with about zero time for myself, as I'm sure all you moms can attest to.  On the rare occasions that I'm  lucky enough to score some "me" time, I feel like I need to spend it doing something productive.  You know, like surfing Pinterest or chucking spit wads at my television while watching Rachel Maddow (sorry if you're a fan - I get like this during election season, and that, kind sirs, can not be helped).  But the biggest thing that dissuades me from frequenting blogland is that I can't imagine that my life is at all interesting to anyone but me.  Really.  We've entered that stage of life where we live part time at home and part time in the mini-van.  And the only noteworthy thing that ever happens in between those two things is that peanut baby, who is not a baybee at ALL anymore, has become infatuated with taking her diaper off and crapping on the floor at her leisure.  I'm sure in 15 or so years, she'll be thrilled that I took it upon myself to share that with you.  Mother of the year.  Right here.

Anyway, I've come to the conclusion that the only way I can keep writing this blog is to take it in a different direction.  I think at this point in my life I'd rather write about my thoughts and opinions (you know, the internally conflicting ones of which I have many) than my toddler's bad habits (that could very well be a blog in and of itself).  Of course, I still may have to throw in a few Peanut Baby stories because you guys, she's a pint sized kamikaze.

To kick off the whole "new direction" thing, I want to talk about something kind of personal.  Well, personal for me.  Maybe not so much for anyone else.  And my reasoning for doing so isn't to draw attention to myself, or to justify my decision (just sayin', because there are lots of ways this could be interpreted).  I'm just guessing that there are people out there who are in the same boat that I was in, and they might benefit from hearing someone elses story.  Maybe not.  But maybe.

Okay, I'm just going to throw it out there because I need a place to start and I can't think of how to begin.  Don't freak out, mmm-kay?  Several weeks ago I got a boob job.  I know I know.  Lame, trendy, vein, stupid, worldly, those are probably just a few things attached to the idea of cosmetic surgery.  I get it.  And to be honest, I used to think that way too.  Then I nursed 4 babies and everything changed.  I knew after I finished nursing the first one, that things weren't looking good.  But ohmyheck, 3 babies later???  I had no idea that could even happen.  Seriously, nobody tells you these things (Mom, I'm talking to you).  It was so bad that I couldn't even put my arms over my head without my bra taking refuge around my neck.  Not kidding.  I've never been exactly "well endowed", but this was something else entirely.  I was as flat as my 9 year old son.  

I'm going to be honest here.  I have thought about getting a boob job before now.  Actually, I thought about during the time in between the births each of my children, but could never bring myself to really consider it.  If you know me at all, you know that I spend a great deal of time and effort creating a natural, clean, healthy lifestyle for myself and my family.  I even have another blog devoted to that very thing.  I felt like I would be at best deceitful, and at worst a fraud if I actually gave myself permission to consider going through with it.  That was until about a year ago when I spoke to a friend (a few friends actually) who I deeply admire and who's opinions I respect wholeheartedly.  After 3 babies my one friend had recently taken the plunge herself.  She helped me think it through rationally and urged me to not worry about what other people may or may not think.  She said, "what do YOU want?"  I guess that opened the door for me to be honest with myself.  What DID I want?  I wanted to be able to shop places other than children's stores (again, I kid you not).  I wanted to workout without going to great lengths to avoid seeing my reflection.  I wanted to be able to take my kids to the pool without worrying about looking like the 3 grade boys.  And most of all (and this is very personal), I wanted to be with the man I've been married to for nearly 13 years without feeling insecure and self-conscious.  Now, let me clarify.  My husband is ANYTHING but critical.  He had never said anything that would have indicated that he was not absolutely fine with the way I was.  Really, my hang-ups weren't about him.  They were about me.  I didn't look like a woman and consequently, I didn't feel like one either.  These were self-inflicted feelings of inadequacy that I was tired of battling.

So, you'd think all of those things would have made my decision a simple one, right?  well, not really.  I'm mormon.  A very active devout mormon for that matter.  And one thing I've always believed is that our mortal bodies really are temples for our sprits.  We should treat them with respect.  I couldn't get the idea of surgically altering my body to fall in line with those beliefs.  I tortured myself with these thoughts for a solid 6 months.  But one night last spring, I was talking to my Mom on the phone and I told her all of my concerns.  I'll never forget what she said,  She said, "I think God is far more concerned with the kind of person you are and how you treat other people than He is with whether or not you get a boob job".  A light went on in my head and I realized that she was probably right.  The next day I called and scheduled an appointment for a consultation.  But that was another 3 month wait that was filled with more self doubt and guilt over the fact that I couldn't just accept myself the way that I was.  Not to mention that I have 4 kids, two of which are boys ages 11 and 9.  How on earth would I even begin explaining this to them?   Finally, Ryan and I decided to just go to the consultation and hear what the doctor had to say.  We knew that I wouldn't have to commit to anything if I didn't want to. 

Truth be told, I absolutely adored the doctor we chose and I knew he understood exactly what my issues were.  For some reason it also helped that he was happily married with 7 kids, awaiting their 8th from Ukraine.  I don't know why but knowing he was a family man instilled that extra little bit of trust I think I needed to help me make the decision to move forward with it.  So, we set a date.  

I was gung-ho until about 3 days before surgery.  I lost count of how many times I almost called to cancel.  Ryan told me later that he was sure I would bail (oh ye of little faith).  I told a few select friends in addition to my family, and although they were all very supportive, I couldn't get rid of that thought, "I wonder what they REALLY think".  I was sure they all thought I was a brainwashed bimbo.  In reality, I didn't know what they thought, and I don't know what they think now.  But everyone has been SO great.  Even my kids.  I was desperately worried about how to tell my two sons.  I wasn't sure how they would react.  But we decided that it would be best to just be open with them about it because who knows, one day they might be married to a someone who finds herself in a similar situation.  We explained to them that even though it's the greatest thing in the world, nursing babies takes a toll on a mother's body.  Sometimes to the point that she feels very self-conscious.  They seemed to get it.  But what really surprised me was that they were so totally comfortable discussing it.  Kids are so freaking cool. 

The day of my surgery was a blur, but I remember my kids coming home from school and walking into my bedroom where I was wrapped like a mummy and strung out on pain meds.  without hessitation they jumped up on my bed and said, "oh MOM!  You look so good!".  They were awesome.  They were better than awesome.  I've been so proud of how they've handled what could have been an uncomfortable experience.  Their future wives are very lucky girls.  That is if I ever actually allow them to get married.  It's unlikely.

It's been several weeks and I can honestly say that this is the best decision I've ever made for myself.  Sometimes I still get worried about what people are thinking but that concern is WAY overshadowed by how my confidence level has changed.  My recovery has been a breeze and it's so much fun to feel girly and feminine again.  

I know that cosmetic surgery isn't something that everyone agrees with and I'm okay with that.  But to all you girls who feel insecure about...the girls, I feel your pain.  It's something you can't understand unless you've experienced it.  I'm not advocating for surgery here, but it was definitely the right thing for me.  I would do it again in a heartbeat.  

Finally, My Pinterest Addiction Bareth Fruit

Crud.  School's out.  It's been 7 hours and I'm struggling already.  The idea of having a fifth child seems so doable until I have the current 4 all home at the same time.  
Enter Valium.  And birth control.


I haven't really planned much in terms of academic maintenance for the summer.  But I did at long last put my many Pinterest hours to good use.  Can the words "Pinterest" and "good use" be used in the same sentence?  Because my husband would argue that they contradict each other.  At best.  BUT, behold the instagram summer journals...

So far I haven't done much more than stare at them while trying to decide what exactly I will demand be written in them, but they really do have great potential.  20 bucks says they're still blank come September.


Another thing that comes with summer is Tootsie's dance recital.  Today was picture day.  I want to love it but to be honest, it seems a little too similar to those nut-job beauty pageants that are really just an excuse for moms to dress their 5 year olds up like hookers.  It feels one set of false teeth away from ridiculous.  But she laps it up like a golden retriever on a desert island.  So of course I pull out my camera and let her work her tap dancing, booty shaking mojo.  And then I thank the good Lord that we have 364 days until we have to do it again.  

And finally, because I have absolutely no ability to stick to one topic, I want to ask you something.  When and how have you chosen to talk to your kids about the birds and the bees?  Why do you feel the way you do?  For some reason I keep running into this topic of conversation with various individuals.  I've been surprised at how greatly opinions seem to vary from one person to the next.  I came across this article recently but haven't yet decided how I feel about it.  Please, internetz, do impart your wisdom.    

Impulse Control is Not My Forte

Last Friday I took the kids to the IFA store to look at the baby chickens.  It was only a few minutes before I found myself driving home with 6 of them in a cardboard box.  I don't know what happened.  We were all, "oh look how cuuuuute and fuzzyyyyy!"  And then I was like, "yes I'll take 6 please".  I don't remember what my train of thought was in between those two moments (I did NOT go into the store with the intention of purchasing one single thing - I'll tell you what).  But alas, we are now proud chicken owners.  Actually, I'm not very proud.  In fact, I'm kind of embarrassed about the whole thing.  Ryan will gladly tell you how thrilled he is that I took it upon myself to bless our home with 6 family pets.  No, I don't have a problem with impulse control thank you very much.  Okay, maybe I do.  They're really cute though.  And with any luck they'll provide us with a few years worth of amazing organic eggs.  And LOTS of fertilizer.  


Tootsie insisted on choosing names for them.  So would you be surprised if I told you that she has finally settled on Fluffy, Fluffy, Fluffy, Fluffy, Fluffy, and Peaches (the black one-of course)?  

We supposedly got 5 buff Orphingtons and 1 black Sexlink.  But over the past few days one of our "supposedly" buff Orphingtons has mysteriously turned white, doubled in size, and sprouted feathers on her feet.  I did a little research about this sort of chicken mutation and found out that we may have one of these on our hands.

I think it looks like a muppet.  I can't put my finger on which one exactly but there's some muppet in there for sure.  For now though, she's still pretty cute (see below).

Right as I took this picture, Peanut Baby reached in and gave Peaches a little love choke squeeze.  All six chickens wince a little bit whenever they see Peanut Baby approaching.  And for good reason.

                          Haiiiii Mom!  Am harassing chickens and just generally acting like a derp.  Is fun!

Tootsie is something of a chicken whisperer.  She can get any one of the five Fluffy's to jump into her hand just by saying, "chickee - chickee - chickee".  It's all very magical.  Until one of them craps on her hand.

I asked Ryan if he would build our chickens a small modest home.  He cautiously agreed knowing full well that there was more to my request than implied.  I repeated the words small and modest a few more times just to show him how low my expectations really were.  And then I showed him this...

Good news, we're still married.  But our chickens are going to have to live with something more along the lines of a plastic bin enclosed by a baby gate.  Some day.  Some day.  *sigh*  

Not to give you subject matter whiplash or anything, but yesterday I had the in-laws over for dinner.  The actual dinner was nothing to write home about, but at the last second I decided to bust out a batch of these Lemon Bomb Cookies.  I got the recipe from my mom, so I don't know where it came from originally.  I wish I knew, because I would send that person flowers every day for the rest of their life.  Internetz, these cookies are the KING of cookies.  They are so good in fact, that my notoriously difficult to impress mother-in-law asked to take some home with her.  They are soft and chewy and have little bits of crushed up lemon heads inside.  I know!!!  Those chickens had better deliver because I'll be making these on a regular basis in the near future.  Here's the recipe...

3 cups flour

1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon finely grated lemon zest
1 1/3 cups sugar
1 cup butter
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 teaspoon lemon extract
4-5 ounces lemon head candies, crushed (use food processor for best results)
3 tablespoons lemon juice 
1 1/2 cups powdered sugar


Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Sift together dry ingredients and set aside.  Cream together zest and butter.  Add eggs one at a time and beat until light and fluffy.  Add vanilla and lemon extract.  Gradually add flour mixture and mix until just blended.  Stir in crushed lemon drops.  Roll into 1-inch balls and bake on parchment or greased baking sheet for 10-12 minutes or until edges are slightly brown and centers are almost set.  Let cool.


Mix powdered sugar and lemon juice to make glaze (add lemon zest and a bit of butter if desired).  Spread glaze over tops of cookies.


Oh, and for all you photography enthusiasts, have you ever tried the technique called free-lensing?  OHMYHOLYCRAPIMOBSESSED!  It's not exactly healthy for your camera but it's super fun.  We'll see if I still have good things to say about it by the time I destroy my lens.  Read about it here.