Mother's Day

I have to admit it.  Mother’s Day has been my least favorite holiday for a very long time.  If there was a national holiday celebrating root canals or bunions, I would probably prefer those days to Mother’s Day.

I don’t hate being a mother.  My ambivalence for the day has nothing to do with my own children.  I have grown up with my children, in a very real way.  I have good children.  I can see them turning into happy and productive members of society.  This makes me very happy.

But for many years, Mother’s Day meant two things for me. One was the reminder of the strained relationship I have had most of my life with my own mother, and the other was the permanent reminder that I was never quite the mother I thought I should be.

Two or three different times I was asked to speak in Sacrament Meeting on Mother’s Day.  I would have never said no, but I wanted to shout it back at the bishopric member who asked me.  The last thing I wanted to do on Mother’s Day was stand and speak before two hundred people about all of the blessings of motherhood when I felt so woefully inadequate myself. My heart broke a little each time I had to speak of motherhood after the years I had struggled to make some sort of relationship with my own mom.

Then the worst part of the day would always come when each woman in the ward was presented some small trinket or gift.  Once it was a chocolate chip cookie on a stick.  This was almost never a good idea; give the mother of small children a cookie for herself after her children have endured long hours of sitting still and listening in church clothes.  I had three small children who, after several hours of church, wanted that cookie worse than they wanted oxygen.  Of course I would not have denied them a bite.  Who wants to spend Mother's Day selfishly chomping on a cookie in front of a three-year-old?

Most popular were the flower plants.  Neither of my two thumbs is green.  Receiving a plant reminded me of just another aspect of Mormon womanhood that I hated.  Every attempt I made to grow a garden, vegetable or otherwise, usually ended with me sunburned, exhausted, and in a heap of tears.  But the prophet said to plant one, so that’s what I did.  Worse was the inevitable church leader who was always ready with the razor sharp wit: “We’ll see how many of you mothers still have the plants alive next year.”  Great, thanks.  More guilt.  More work.

Some years the gifts were handed out to the mothers according to the number of children she had.  For someone having just two children for many years, this always left me feeling embarrassed for not having more children.  I hated feeling as if my worth depended upon the number of children I had.  I know only the best intentions were ever part of the efforts to recognize mothers, but the messages were still there.

Motherhood means something more to me now.  After so many wasted  years I am beginning to let go of unrealistic expectations and guilt and focus on the joys.  I don’t feel guilty for a quickly prepared dinner or balancing my career and my home.  I find joy in the milestones my kids reach, and in watching them grow into people of integrity and principle.  And for my little girl, hearing the future she plans is the icing on the cake.  She has the idea that she can be anything she wants to be, including a mom and about fifty million other things.  I just want her to feel like whatever she is, well, that’s good enough.  And worth celebrating.

A Woman's Place- Part 4

 by Angela Felsted

I grew up in a home with three brothers, so I can attest to the fact that some teenage boys are resentful of the extra work that comes with having the priesthood. I’ve never been required to wake up at the crack of dawn for a church meeting, never been pressured to put my life on hold to serve a mission, nor was I taught the importance of finding a career that would enable me to support my future family. As a young woman, the emphasis was in becoming the kind of girl that would be worthy of a man’s protection through keeping my thoughts clean, my body covered, and my virtue intact. Why pursue a lucrative profession if you believe your future husband will take care of you financially; why go into a prestigious field like law if it keeps you from staying home full time with your children?

In the church we call men and women equals while proscribing them segregated roles. We preach that a mother’s work is as respected and admired as any man’s even though men who do my work (Stay-At-Home Fathers or part-time workers who spend more time with family) cannot be found anywhere in the paid church hierarchy. Because the truth is, men who succeed in building prestigious (non-nurturing) careers are the ones who are called as spiritual leader. The two counselors who advise the president of the church are perfect examples of this: Henry B. Eyring went from teaching at Stanford Business School in 1962 to working as President of Ricks College from 1971-1977, and Dieter F. Uchtdorf, who began flying airplanes for Lufthansa in 1965, was promoted to Senior Vice President of Flight Operations in 1992.

It’s only right that these men are admired for their ambition. After all, they are not mothers, called selfish from the pulpit for having the drive to pursue their careers. Authors such as William Bennett, who attribute the disintegration of stable families with the rise of feminism, would be hard pressed to find a better religious organization to model “The Path to Manhood” from. Mormons women are taught to value the home not only as teenagers, when temple marriage is held up as their ultimate goal but also as adults through sermons, lessons and pictures such as those found in the church’s newest publication, “Daughters of My Kingdom,” littered with images of idyllic family life: a mother and father singing with children around a piano, one photo of a family with six bright and cheerful kids, and more than one well-rested mother holding a calm and peaceful newborn.

This one-size-fits-all version of womanhood, advertised like a brand of designer tennis shoes, is isolating to those who believe in the doctrines of the church, but struggle with the womanhood/motherhood connection, or with an abusive spouse, or with the realization that raising children is a tiring job that depletes a person’s energy. The voices of these real women who have real needs are drowned out by the daunting image of the perfect female nurturer. And let’s be honest, new mothers are tired, not all kids are serene, most make messes, many of them do not listen—taking care of children, cleaning a home, doing laundry, and fixing meals isn’t just hard work, it can be tedious. Granted, there are those who enjoy these things, but that doesn’t change the fact that there’s no ladder to climb in this profession, no reputation to build, no money to be made (unless you work for someone else). 

By highlighting only the most fulfilling moments of family life to its female population, the Mormon church is employing the same commercial techniques which Barber believes has infantilized the US population. There are three ways this harms women (and by extension families): first, it sets future mothers up for disillusionment; second, it creates an environment where those who feel marginalized cannot speak up without censor from their peers; and third, it establishes an unrealistic standard which makes women (single and married) think there’s something wrong with them when men do not propose, babies do not come, or having children does not bring them perfect joy. That last part describes exactly what happened to Lisa Butterworth, an LDS woman who went through her own period of disillusionment before starting the blog, Feminist Mormon Housewives: “I had entered adulthood, married in the temple, and arrived at my destination of perfect Mormon womanhood, but… here was doubt. All my years of faithful Young Women attendance had not prepared me for doubt. Except perhaps to instill the fear that doubt meant I was a bad person.”

Dr. Kent Ponder wrote a widely distributed study in 2003 based on nearly 300 interviews with LDS women called Mormon Women, Prozac® and Therapy where he pinpoints three harmful and often overlooked realities of the male-centric Mormon culture/church: it’s one-size-fits-all creed for women, the requirement that females obey men in authority from birth to death, and how women in the Church forfeit control of their own life choices.

Six months ago, I would have called that last one a load of rubbish, but I have since taken time to think back on the principles stressed in my formative years along with their impact on my choices as a young single woman and must admit that his statement has some merit. For starters, my decision to major in music rather than a practical, more lucrative profession was rooted in my belief that the patriarchal system would always be there to take care of me. And this is the belief that relieved me of pressure to support myself after college graduation when I moved in with my parents and worked a handful of part-time jobs: Jewelry Store Salesman, Switch Board Operator, Office Temp, Substitute Teacher, Free Lance Musician, and Private Music Instructor. By the time I married in 1999, I was a college educated women who had never gotten her own apartment, paid her own car insurance, owned her own credit card, or worked at anything other than a dead end job—but I was pure, completely devoted to the gospel, and looked on my leaders with a childlike faith that matched my childlike obedience.

In the church’s estimation I was a success.

A Woman's Place- Part 1

By Angela Felsted

In 1999, one year after I graduated from college, I agreed to marry someone I hardly knew. We had been dating less than three months and neither of us had reason to rush things. He wasn’t dying; I wasn’t pregnant; and we both had our US citizenship. My younger brother, who was serving a two-year Mormon mission, wanted me to delay the marriage until he got home. I refused, but in defense of my rash decision, there were two things pushing me toward the altar: romantic love, and a desire to hold onto my virginity until my nuptials.

Turmoil set in after our honeymoon. I slept on the couch a lot. (My in-laws and parents were unaware of my struggles since I put on a smile and said everything was fine.) It seemed like the man I lived with had changed overnight, and I wanted my fiancé back. He had been so thoughtful while we dated—bringing me daisies, holding my hand, snuggling with me on the couch. I had thought, when we married, that I’d wake up in his arms each morning, or fall asleep looking into his brown eyes. Instead my husband made the bed with separate blankets. He went stiff when I embraced him and took issue with my “clinginess.” When I worked to keep an optimistic outlook, I could accept his need for space. Other times I felt desperate and alone. Was I foolish to believe marriage would be blissful?

Twelve years later, I still ask myself this question. I am 35, with a husband who has learned to hug me when I cry, four kids finally old enough to dress themselves, and a new illusion shattered: that motherhood is a fulfilling and idyllic legacy.

With kids in elementary school, I thought I’d miss the infant stage—the rush of love I got from watching my newborn son in sleep, lashes spread out like half moons against his cheeks. Rather I feel like I’m leaving a dark tunnel, with tantrums, dirty diapers, and sleepless nights behind me. In the years before I had children, I didn’t fear parenting because I believed myself an expert. This wasn’t pride so much as ignorance; I put my younger sister to bed when I was 10, started babysitting at 12, worked at a daycare center at 19, and looked down my nose at parents who could not control their children.

There were a lot of things I failed to grasp as a young single woman. My choice to marry a man I’d dated for less than six months for emotional reasons (“romantic love”), can be attributed to the naïve storybook belief that everyone has a match. And my decision to place sexual morality above the modern notion of testing the waters (“a desire to hold onto my virginity until my nuptials”) is a principle modeled by my mother, who chose to stay home with her five children in the seventies and eighties, when second-wave feminism called rigid gender roles oppressive.

Growing up in a traditional Mormon home, I saw no problems with the patriarchal model my parents used. My father presided insofar as he chose which of his kids would say grace at the dinner table. He brought home a paycheck, gave the occasional priesthood blessing, and taught me how to ride a bike and throw a Frisbee. When my brothers turned twelve and were ordained Deacons, they passed the bread and water each Sunday and began to prepare for their missions through study and prayer. I was taught that a woman had no greater calling than to marry a worthy priesthood holder and rear a family. In high school, my female church leaders put together a fashion show where we wore our mother’s wedding dresses. I’d never kissed a boy, never been out on a date, and worried about placing so much value on something I could not control. At this point I had yet to hear anyone state that stay-at-home mothers were oppressed. My father was (and remains) a man who does dishes and vacuums floors. Even so, I refused to base my worth on men’s opinions, and chose instead to focus on my education.

My parents were proud when they dropped me off at Brigham Young University (owned by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints) in September of 1994. I shared a kitchen with five other girls who could not have been more different. Two of them planned to pursue their degrees come hell or high water, one made it known she would put it on hold for the right man, and the two remaining had enrolled for the sole purpose of finding a husband. Apparently, they viewed forking out thousands of dollars to a college they had no intention of graduating from as an investment rather than a waste of money.

In fairness, if their church leaders had been anything like mine, these girls had been told in every meeting and activity that a woman had no greater calling than to marry a righteous priesthood holder and rear a family. They simply wanted their lives to start.

Last night as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling fan to the left of my bed, I tried to explain to my husband that the pressure he felt to go on a mission at 19 is exactly like the pressure Mormon girls feel to get married to a worthy man. My husband wisely mentioned how tiresome it is to hear women in their twenties label themselves old maids. I had one such roommate my junior year who asked me how I could stand my single status when she believed hers meant there was something wrong with her. I kept myself from laughing at the lunacy of her statement only because she was about to cry. What I should have done was ask her why she needed a man (or anyone else) to tell her she was lovable?

I mention this as a tangent, a piece of the bigger picture, but it is also a necessary part of the story. In 1972, when my 31-year-old mother, who worked in DC as a secretary for the FBI, married a musician seven years younger than herself, she’d taken a leap of faith not uncommon for a Mormon woman. By the time she was 45, she had four healthy children and a 6-year-old son newly diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. The church took care of her needs. Meals were brought in, childcare provided. How is it that the same patriarchal system which afforded her so much security had the power to chip away at my roommate’s self-esteem by defining her as a wife and mother before she had even married?

What my parents and youth leaders really wanted was for us girls to find love, raise a family and be productive citizens. I don’t think anyone intended to create a culture where single women and those who deal with infertility struggle with their worth as human beings.

With single parent households rising and half of new marriages failing in the United States, the Mormon patriarchy is clinging harder than ever to traditional marriage. Preparing young women for motherhood by holding up pictures of LDS temples like those of Cinderella’s castle, where prince charming will whisk them away and give them a blissful storybook ending. But what most of us find upon entering our fairy tale kingdom is that the servants have been dismissed, and that we must build our relationship without a personal maid to cover up the girth of our frustrations, or a laundress to wash out the stains of our emotional baggage.