Being Fat is Hardly My Worst Trait

Let’s get the main points out in the open up front. Yes. I know I’m fat. No. I’m not proud of it. Yes. I wish I were thin and beautiful and the epitome of health. No. I do not want to join your clean eating group, weight loss challenge, life style adjustment, exercise contest, or anything else. Perhaps I am lazy. Perhaps I am discouraged. But, more likely, I am just imperfect in many, many ways.

You see, I have never been happy with my body. My eyes have always shied away from mirrors. I’ve never had a healthy relationship with a bathing suit. I have experimented with diet, exercise and supplements. I have restricted myself to tomato juice, or cabbage soup, or lean proteins. I have seen the pounds drop off and felt euphoric at my progress. I have changed my mindset so drastically that I have, before, felt a flutter of sickness at the sacrament bread, not wanting to consume those refined carbohydrates. I have never been a better person for it.

I have friends who have managed the weight-loss journey with much more success. I don’t mean success as a number of pounds; I mean it as a function of self-improvement. They have increased self confidence, become better parents and bumped up their energy. I have never had these benefits. With each new diet, I simply feel discouraged and obsessed. I hate the mirror more. What I do is never enough. I obsess over food to the detriment of my spirit and my family. My self-worth becomes dependent on meeting that next milestone. And then I crash. I fail. I quit and I remember how worthless I really am.

So, then, it would seem that I’m advocating for a horribly false principle. It seems that I am arguing that I am incapable of self improvement, that I cannot change, that I have no ability to define my own destiny. That’s not at all what I believe. In fact, I will bear passionate testimony of the words of President Boyd K. Packer when he said, “It is contrary to the order of heaven for any soul to be locked into compulsive, immoral behavior with no way out! It is consistent with the workings of the adversary to deceive you into believing that you are.” I am absolutely certain that change is always possible. Hard, yes, but completely possible.

So how does that jive with my pathetic excuses for remaining fat?

I also believe the words of Elder Oaks. “The number of good things we can do far exceeds the time available to accomplish them. Some things are better than good, and these are the things that should command priority attention in our lives.”

I don’t like the person I am when I diet. I don’t like obsessing over how my pants fit. I don’t like thinking about food all day until I finally am able to permit myself the selected calorie count. I don’t like being unable to climb down from the treadmill for another 20 minutes when my children need attention now. I don’t like the discouragement, the self-loathing, or the obsessive tendencies that I know are clearly discernible to my children.

The largest reason for not doing it, though, is simply that I am so imperfect in so many ways. I need to spend more time studying the scriptures. I need to spend more time reading with my struggling child. I need to spend more time tending my home. I need to spend more time working on my calling. I need to be better at budgeting and financial planning. I wish I was kinder. I wish I was more empathetic. I wish I did more service. I wish I had more time to write my personal history. I wish I did more temple work.

I admire the women who manage to do weight loss challenges and not sacrifice other priorities. I absolutely believe it’s possible. It’s just not in the cards for me right now. Please invite me to do any type of self improvement that has made a difference in your life. I am excited for you as you reach your goals. But don’t feel bad if I don’t join you. I am working on self improvement in the best ways I can. I am attempting to change, progress and improve. I just have so many different areas that I need to work on. I have decided to divert my eyes from the mirror for a few seconds every day. I loose those seconds, but not the whole day. Perhaps, as I improve myself over time, I will someday find time to prioritize my physical condition. But if not, I will at least hope that I can improve myself to the point that I can look in the mirror and love who I am, regardless of my body shape. I truly do want to be that kind of person.

I also really enjoyed this article.

Why I Have a Billion Children

My sister, who is currently working on her fifth child, likes to tell people about my seven and then call me to talk about their reactions. Responses vary from incredulous to condemning. This article is for the curious. Those who call me “irresponsible” won’t hear or consider my reasons. They will scream about carbon footprints and I will counter with curiosity about who they think is going to fund their social security payments, but neither of us will be convinced nor uplifted. This article is not for them. It is, perhaps, most for those who knew me when I was younger and wonder how the girl slated by her high school class to “conquer a small nation,” instead decided to create one.

Why do I have a billion children?

Because of what I believe. 

I was surprised, when I became an adult, to realize that the doctrine of the preexistence was not common to all Christian faiths. I believe it is one of the fundamental reasons so many Mormons decide to have large families. We believe that we are eternal beings. We existed before we were spiritually created by our Father in Heaven. We existed with him as spiritual beings before we were physically created by our Earthly parents. In heaven, we made the choice to come to Earth as the next step in our eternal progression. We are here for a variety of reasons, all having to do with God’s plan for our salvation. When we have a child, his/her spirit is not created in order to fill a physical body. We believe it is the opposite. 

How does this result in a greater desire for children? Imagine your father, who you love and revere, came to you and said, “There is a child, a member of our family. He needs a home. After considering many other options, I want you to raise him. I will make sure you have what you need financially, emotionally and physically if you are willing.” Would you say no? This is a very real parallel to our perspective on the decision to have children. When I feel the stirring in my heart that begins the consideration of whether or not to have another child, I am much less concerned with questions of practicality. I am more concerned with discovering whether or not that feeling is from God.

Does that mean that we all have to have a billion children? Of course not. Our father is loving, nurturing and all knowing. He does not give to his children equally, but each according to their individual needs. The choice to have one, two or ten babies has to be between a husband, wife, and God. But my belief in parenthood as a divine calling is fundamental to my decision to have a large family. 

Because of my love for my husband. 

Before you ask, Yes. I have heard of birth control and, No. I am not talking about that kind of love. As a young woman, I heard about being “baby hungry” and thought it meant that babies are little and cute and you wanted one. I saw it as akin to wanting a kitten. I was wrong.

After I married my husband, I discovered that my initial desire for children had nothing to do with the children themselves. I wanted a child as a natural expression of my powerful love for my husband. This is hard to describe in words. I loved him. I loved being a family with him. I wanted to be a parent with him. I wish I could explain it better.  Certainly, I fall in love with him again as I watch him being a father. Each new child only compounds that love.

Because I believe it’s best for my children.

A few years ago, I was having breakfast with a friend and her two children. Before presenting her nine-year-old with a waffle, she carefully cut it into bite sized pieces. One of my kids noticed and said, “Mom, cut my waffle.” I laughed and laughed and laughed.  

I believe that every child is given to the parent that needs them and vice versa. I believe that there are successful families in all sizes. I believe that there are a million ways to be a good mom, but none to be a perfect one.  I believe my friend’s child needed her waffle cut. Mine did not. My kids are independent, hardworking and learn service from the time they are very small. My oldest was thirteen months old when his brother was born. At that age, he learned to bring me the wipes and find his brother’s binky. Now he has the great privilege of taking care of his younger brothers and sisters in addition to himself. 

I learned as a young mother that doing everything for my kids was much easier than teaching them to do it themselves. As we welcomed more children to our family, I learned the opposite.  Some people seem to think that children do not get the love and attention they need when there are more kids to split mom’s attention. My kids disagree. They know that mom’s love is boundless and only added upon by the love they get from each other. We live in a circus, but we always have fun. 

Because I love this life.

Yesterday, I was trying to get my house cleaned up for guests. It made me a bit distracted. My three year old colored the stairs I had just vacuumed with sidewalk chalk. My three littlest worked together to move the contents of the spice cupboard to the oven. I did not know this when I preheated it to make bread. I found two of my bathroom toilets clogged with an entire roll of toilet paper each. Those are just the major things, I won’t detail spilled cereal bowls or sticky fingerprints. After putting the babies to bed, I sat down to watch a movie with my husband, which was interrupted half a dozen times by my four year old who couldn’t sleep. When we finally stumbled, exhausted, downstairs to bed, we found all five of our children who don’t sleep in cribs passed out with their blankets on the floor of our room.  

And do you know what? I wouldn’t change it for the world. 

Motherhood is my masterpiece. It is my passion. It is the greatest joy that I could ever imagine. It saps my brain, exhausts my body, and denies me the things I once thought I loved. But I don’t think I’ve truly sacrificed a thing. Giving up something good for something better is not a sacrifice. I don’t care that my house isn’t clean. I don’t regret the lack of time for decorating or vacationing. I don’t miss my teenage body or the great things I was once sure I could do for the world. I believe there is nothing more important than what I’m doing. I am convinced that success is measured in happiness.   I couldn’t be more successful. 

I have a billion kids because they make me happy.

On Motherhood: Uplift. Encourage. Inspire.

There’s  a saying being passed around various social media. It’s always some permutation of this: “A woman who loses a husband is a widow. A child who loses a parent is an orphan. There is no word for a mother who loses a child because language is not sufficient to describe this kind of pain.” Is the loss of a child the most excruciating experience of this life? From my perspective, it certainly could be. I do not mean to diminish or question the agony that accompanies saying goodbye to such pure love. But, I don’t believe the pain has anything to do with the lack of a title afforded to those who are its victims. 

May I suggest   that the reason there is no word for a woman who loses a child is because our language is old, and, until very recently, such a woman was known simply as a mother. If there is a surprise here, it’s that there is no word for a woman who has never lost a child. In generations past, she was the anomaly. She was the outlier. She was the one who must be separated from the flock, not for her trial, but for the obvious grace she had been given from God. 

My sweet grandmother was the sixth of nine children, three boys and six girls. In her personal history she wrote of her overwhelming desire to never cause her parents hurt and worry. She felt they had suffered enough because their oldest four children, including all of their sons, never made it to adulthood. Later in her life, she would face her greatest trial when her first baby was born prematurely and only lived twenty-six hours.

I don’t pretend to understand the pain of losing a child. I have carried seven children in my body and I currently have seven children sleeping under my roof. Among my beloved miracles is a daughter who was born at the same period of gestation as my grandmother’s oldest. Instead of planning a funeral, I brought my lovely daughter home after only a week in the hospital. She’s a perfectly happy and healthy two-year-old. The only real difference in my experience and my grandmother’s was two generations of time. 

Advances in medical technology, standards of living, vaccinations, and sanitation have completely changed the world in only a few years. I can only imagine what the women of a few generations ago would say, if they could see their progeny. I imagine that they would cry tears of joy for the miraculous recoveries and the long lives of the children born to our generation. I can’t help but wonder, however, how they would feel about the way we approach parenting, now that we no longer need fear the loss of our precious little ones. 

And now we’re getting to the point of all this reflection. Grandma summed it up in a few simple words when she said, “On November 15, 1938, we had our first child, born at the LDS hospital in Salt Lake, but she was premature and only lived 26 hours.  We felt like we were really being tried, but we never lost our faith and took our problems as they came.  Here I want to express my gratitude to my dear parents for the love and help they gave us during this time and my gratitude also goes to Lewis and Eulalia Anderson for their concern for us in those early years of our marriage, and for the support and help that they gave us.” 

I look at those words, “love, support, help,” and my heart breaks as I consider the culture of competition, condemnation, and bitterness that so many of us have embraced. I have come to dislike the “mom blog” mentality more than I can describe. It seems like every time I turn around, there is another hot-button issue. Making your kids hug grandparents sets them up for being victims of molestation. Bottle feeding your kids means you don’t love them. Using disposable diapers causes allergies. Co-sleeping causes SIDS. Co-sleeping prevents SIDS. Sacrificing to pay for expensive, academic preschools is what selfless parents do. You should love your spouse more than your kids. You should put your kids’ needs before your spouse.  You should  (or should not) give your kids vitamin supplements. You have to buy organic foods. Homeschooling damages your child’s ability to socialize. Public schools are indoctrination mills. Teach your child to share.  A no-share policy teaches respect for other’s rights and eliminates the dangerous entitlement mentality. Starting solids earlier prevents/causes food allergies. Epidurals are for the weak and selfish. Make your beds every day. Real moms have dirty houses. Have a lot of kids. Space them out. Crying it out. Scheduling. Attachment. Independence. Home birth/water birth. Doctor/Doula/Midwife. And on and on and on.

Every time I turn around, someone is not only advocating their own expertise, but condemning the other perspective as “bad parenting.” I have been as guilty a perpetrator as any. I desperately love my children and want to raise them the best way possible. But, the older I get, the more convinced I am that the most dangerous thing I do as a parent is buying into the idea that there is a perfect way to raise children. In the end, these things matter so little. There are millions of ways to be a good mother, and none to be a perfect one. 

Being a mother is truly the greatest and hardest of life’s experiences. And we are truly the most privileged and blessed generation of mothers. But in my mind, I can see my grandmother, surrounded by her sisters in motherhood, supporting and loving each other through life’s most difficult trial. I can also see the women of my generation angrily typing their soap boxes into social media, sacrificing love and support in favor of fighting for what they consider to be advocating for the children. Except that I am convinced the children are more damaged by the battle than benefited by the advocacy. 

Motherhood is about love, compassion, and patience. Can’t we extend a little of that for the other women who share our joys and trials?  Isn't that what it truly means to have a mother's heart? We are all doing our very best. We all love our little ones so much. We truly need each other.