A Short History of My Breasts

I wrote this a few weeks ago as a post for Feminist Mormon Housewives. I also wanted to post it here.

A Short History of My Breasts

The other day I saw a beautiful picture of a naked woman in the woods. Surprisingly enough, when I saw the picture, it brought tears to my eyes. Apparently seeing someone the way they are, still smiling, even though another person is present to see their nakedness, to feel so comfortable to share yourself in such a way, was deeply touching to me. And also filling me a bit with envy. Because I'd rather die than have anyone see me naked. It got me thinking about my own discomfort with my body, and a life-long dislike in particular of my breasts. So, let me share with you a short history of my breasts.

When I was 11 years old, I got in a car with a strange man. He took me to a near-by forest, where supposedly an injured foal was laying, needing (my expert) help. Obviously, there was no foal. And as the man was walking in front of me into the forest, I suddenly realized the danger I was in, and thought I would get murdered in this forest. But the man turned around, said this was not the right spot, and we got back in his car. While sitting in his car, I noticed his penis hanging out of his pants. I also knew I had to get away, and decided to jump out of the driving car.  Unhurt, I got up and was heading for a corn field, when the man made one more attempt to lure me in, asking me to "do him some favors". I just ran off.

This experience set an early tone for how I would view my body - an object, wanted or needed by others for their own purposes. Maybe a year after this traumatizing event, I went to the public pool in my little home town. I do not recall the exact events, but remember wearing a modest one-piece swimsuit, and that I was standing in line for the slide, when some boys, maybe 14 years old, commented on my breasts. Even though I cannot remember if the comments were positive or negative, I can still almost feel the blush on my cheeks, and the embarrassment I felt. There I was, with nowhere to hide, and my body had just become an object of public commentary, something to be noticed, talked about, critiqued, like the rest of me was not there.

Then, one day, after visiting a friend who was also a member of the Church, I came home with a bikini the mother of the family had given me to keep. I had never worn a bikini, but appreciated the gift. Yet, when my parents found out about the bikini, it was promptly taken away. I did not understand my parents actions then. I was unsure why the bikini was upsetting to them. Nonetheless, I did understand that wearing one was not ok, and I felt guilty for having wanted to wear it. I was thirteen.

As a teenager I started dressing in ways to hide the shape of my body, especially my ever-present, and ever-sticking-out breasts. When I was looking for a dress for a dance, I found a beautiful dress that was luckily not emphasizing my breasts more than I wanted, and that I felt looked beautiful on me. However, my parents strongly objected to my wearing this dress, since the sleeves were half-off the shoulders. I ended up wearing a borrowed, simple dress from a friend, that fit too snuggly around my chest. The evening was spent self-consciously folding my arms in front of my chest.

I kept hiding myself under unshapely clothes, in hopes that no one would notice my body, or especially my breasts. That no one would comment. Maybe I was succeeding when a boy I really liked at age 16 called me fat. But I couldn't help thinking that part of my "fatness" was just my large breasts that would stick out and make the large clothes fall like a tent around me.

At 18 I was looking into breast reduction surgery. At the first appointment to schedule the surgery, I had to stand topless in front of a doctor, who analyzed the shape of my breasts, drew lines on  them and took pictures of them. A normal medical procedure, I'm sure. Yet, I felt deeply ashamed, and humiliated, wondering what this man was thinking as he drew on me and looked at me. The final obstacle to my surgery was having to see a gynecologist who approved of the surgery. Again, I was being seen by a man. He was kind, and felt that I was pursuing the surgery merely out of desperation (I certainly was! I just wanted those evil breasts gone), and encouraged me to wait a little, give the idea more time, and that as a professional, he felt my breast size was completely normal. When I came home from this appointment (that effectively prevented me from having the surgery), I grabbed a pair of scissors and chopped off my hair. I hated my body. I hated who I was. I hated the face looking back at me from the mirror. And in that moment, I wanted every part of my body to look as ugly and horrible as I felt.

Shortly before my twentieth birthday, I got endowed. Again, I remember the discomfort of not wanting my breasts to be noticed, and yet not wanting to look fat in the tent-like temple dresses rented out to patrons. My garments also complicated life as they kept riding around under my bra. Sometimes they'd get "sucked in" and slipped below my chest. I had now entered a new stage of life, where I'd be adding constant adjustments to a body part I already tried to not draw any attention to. Even further, for one part of my temple ceremonies, I could not wear a bra, and I tried to hide the embarrassment of walking around with completely uncontained full breasts with a humble look at the floor. They did not seem like receptacles of pure and virtuous principles. Instead, they were weighing me down with fear, shame and self-hatred. They seemed to make others uncomfortable in one way or another, and no matter what I did, they were always there. Doing what breasts do, without asking my permission.

I carried on, covering up, trying to hide the breasts God gave me, often times hating him for having burdened me in such a way. Why would he give me something that was impossible to hide, yet seemed to only bring out the worst in others, something that seemed to take over everything else I was? I hated God sometimes. Hated him for obviously being a man, because a woman never would have given me these breasts. A woman would have understood.

Then I met my future husband. When he brought me to a family reunion to meet his family, I later found out how some of them joked that he must be dating me for my breasts. There they were again, those breasts. They seemed to be what people noticed first.  But I did not want my husband to notice them. I wanted him to see me, love me, talk to me. For a long time, I avoided any water activities, because I did not want my husband to see me in a swimsuit. I knew my breasts were being squished together into a big "monoboob" in a swimsuit, and looked so unattractive along with being so very visible, that I couldn't bear the thought of a man I liked seeing me like that.

When I had to start looking for wedding dresses, terror filled my heart - terror that no dress would accommodate my chest, or that they would not fit well, making my breasts ooze out, take front and center stage, and possibly, on top of it all make me look fat.  I cried quite a few tears as I tried on dress after  dress, trying to find one that worked with those hated breasts.

But there was a deeper-seated fear in my heart, beyond the fear of how I would look in a wedding dress. I was terrified of my husband seeing me naked. In my heart, I just knew he'd be disappointed. I knew I could not measure up to whatever he had hoped for. Even though society seemed to value large breasts, I knew that my breasts were ugly. And bad, because they made me feel so uncomfortable when others noticed them.  The weeks leading up to our wedding, I would often stand in the shower, and end up crying on the floor of the tub as I looked at and felt my naked body.

During our wedding night, my husband left my breasts alone. Those hated breasts. Then I cried and cried the next morning, while my husband got us some food. I had faithfully hid them away all those years, and tried to ignore the discomfort and embarrassment they brought into my life. But now, as much as I hated them, I still wanted someone to love them, or love me, despite everything those breasts seemed to entail. Luckily, it was just a misunderstanding, and my husband simply did not want to objectify me, or make me think he only cared about my breasts. Because that's what we care about in society - breasts.  And that's is all I thought I was, for better or worse, - a pair of breasts.

With marriage, eventually, came pregnancy, and the breast hiding continued. I was now constantly tugging at my bra, as my breasts gained in size, and didn't fit into my bras properly. They'd spill out on top, once again leaving me embarrassed as I tried to push the "double-boobs" back into a bra that refused to fit. No blanket seemed big enough to cover the space I needed covered when nursing. The first weeks of motherhood, I hid in my bed room, too ashamed to have anyone see me, even my own mother. To make nursing easier, I now also wore my garment tops  over my bra. Yet, an unpleasant side-effect was that my big breasts made pretty much any shirt a tight fit, and parts of my garments that I had covenanted to keep private were on constant display. I tried to remedy the situation by getting silk-screened tops, but the distribution center said they could not do that. Finally, during a flight my husband was trying to help me stay covered as I nursed our baby, and had to endure my anger when he accidentally bared some of my breasts for a second. No one should have to see my breasts.

But if it was not pregnancy or nursing, it was always something else. About a year after my first child was born, I ran my first half-marathon. My husband took a video clip of me as I passed the 10-mile marker. When I saw the clip, I immediately deleted it. Even though I looked proud and strong as I passed mile 10, my breasts were clearly swinging side to side, despite two sports bras I was wearing. The image horrified me, and overshadowed my accomplishments of a race well run with concerns of people having seen me with breasts bobbing all over the place.

Now my breasts just sag, almost down to my belly button (ok, maybe not quite), after having busted the buttons on many a shirt, moved garments up and down, exposed themselves by accident to various people, have been drawn on, felt and squished by various doctors and nurses, invited commentary, created inappropriate thoughts, fed 3 babies, pleased my husband, and met people before I did. My breasts  - two parts of me that seem to define me, control me, and dictate what the world notices about me.

When I saw the picture of that naked woman, I thought of my breasts. My body. And how I feel I've never owned myself. I wish that I could experience that paradisiacal moment Adam and Eve experienced in the Garden of Eden. To be naked,  to be without shame over my body, to push away the world that tries to own it, and see myself, the human God made, and know that this body I wear is "very good". "And I, God, saw everything that I had made, and, behold, all things which I had made were very ^agood;" (Moses 2:31).

Catching Up On Pictures

I'm finally trying to get caught up on pictures. In the post beneath, I posted a million pictures of our trip to Germany/Spain this year. I haven't put in any comments yet. I'll try to get caught up on more pictures in the next few days from stuff like birthdays, Easter, and...dunno, random goodness.

What else do I want to write down? On Wednesday I had two good friends call me. I was so happy. No one ever calls (and I guess I hardly ever call anyone either, so there's no one to blame). It was just so nice feeling like I still had friends. It was nice getting phone calls and chatting with people.

I still am trying to figure out what makes me such an ass at times. :) I need to call my therapist and schedule an appointment, because I think it would be helpful to work with someone else through my strong reactions to some things, why I resist certain things (like stuff where I know rationally that it's not as big of a deal, or where I know I should be nicer/behave differently, but there is this huge inner resistance, almost like an inner temper tantrum?), and how I can maybe handle some of my issues in a more mature, productive manner.

I definitely want to be nicer to people. I know it's so important to act with charity and kindness. I totally believe that every person is fighting their own battles, and if we could only really understand where everyone is coming from, what's making them who they are, etc. we'd have so much more compassion. I want to be compassionate. I want to be kind and patient. But often I'm just loud and opinionated, and in shouting out my thoughts on the faults and ills and injustices of the world, I trample over 20 people right in front of me. :(

I think I honestly need to work on listening better. Much better. Much much better. Like, waiting till someone is really done speaking, even if I feel like I know what they are going to say. Or even if I know I'll hate what they say. I had an online discussion where someone mentioned using a lot of questions when having discussions. I loved that. Asking lots of questions makes people feel like you care about what they have to say. It also helps you clarify and really understand where they're coming from. I want to try and do that more.

Part of why I'm often such a poor listener is probably part how I've grown up (I think I had to learn to talk over a lot of people to be heard) and part that sometimes I feel like my mind goes a million miles a minute when I'm in a discussion. Someone says something, and half-way into what they're saying I'm having 20,000 thoughts on what they're saying, and it just all bursts out, and then even as I talk I have more thoughts rushing out, and ...Dunno. It's like I really struggling with reigning in the overload of ideas and thoughts etc. Like if I don't get it all out, it'll be gone, or I won't have a chance to share it?

Anyway, I'm sure Ms. Therapist can help me make a bit more sense of why MY ideas and thoughts need to be shared to urgently, and why I can't take a deep breath, and lighten up, and let some things (lots of things) slide, and just listen more to others, and whatever, take a breather in general about life. It's probably not all always as serious/urgent as it appears to me?

Confessions

Ok. I'll admit it here and now. Life is crazy right now.  I think I've been in denial for a while, but I just feel...overwhelmed, and completely out of balance.

Emilia has definitely pushed us into new territory in terms of parenthood. Suddenly, taking care of kids, and the house seems a relentless job, that's always needing attention. I feel pushed to choose between order, and paying attention to my children's needs (something I struggle with), and taking care of my own needs. It's been hard.

In short, I feel like my life is unraveling somehow. I struggle with my weight. I struggle with eating healthy. I struggle with getting enough rest. I struggle with giving my kids enough attention. I struggle with teaching them all the things I want to teach them. I struggle with getting exercise. I struggle with working on developing myself. Henry and I struggle finding time for just the two of us. And lastly, I struggle with Church.

I'm sure I'm missing some struggles, but that would just be another struggle, right?

Oooophh. I used to write for sanity. Now I don't even feel like I have the energy and/or desire to write. Yet, I want to capture what is happening in our lives. I want to capture my kids, and their lives. Because, crazy as it all feels right now, I love them. Dearly. Deeply. Emilia has stopped crying as much. She's been rolling over. She's has the biggest and cutest and most ready smiles on her face most of the time. Alba is full of songs, and words, and is wild and independent, and loves horses and sheep. Sophia is curious and always eager to learn, and to meet new friends. Alba and Sophia are both kind and helpful. We do a lot of family trips. Things are good. And yet, I just feel tired and overwhelmed. Ooophhh.

But, I didn't want to write about family today. I wanted to write about Church. It's been on my mind, a lot. And for years now. So, here are my religious confessions. My testimony isn't the same it was a few years ago. I'm not sure anymore what it is these days, but it has changed a lot.

A few years ago, things started changing. I had heard quite a few stories about/from friends about how they were treated by various Church leaders. It wasn't just friends though, it was also family. Some of the stuff was just "wrong" while other stuff was "really wrong". It came coupled with friends leaving the Church (good friends, honest friends, faithful friends who had served missions and had been active their whole lives), and rode on the back of having had my best friend leave the Church years before, with lots of tears, and hurt feelings, saying no one ever looked into Church history and no one understood. I didn't know what she was talking about, but I said, I'd look. And I did...and started reading more about polygamy, one of the topics that bothered her the most (I think). And when I was done, I was deeply troubled as well. Something had already changed back then. I felt back then that Joseph Smith must have made a mistake with all the polygamy stuff. I just couldn't believe it was off God. And if it wasn't God's will, then Joseph Smith messed up. And that day, my beliefs about prophets changed. I technically never believed prophets to be infallible. Our doctrine is clear that all men can/will make mistakes. The scriptures are full of examples. Yet, somehow, I still held the notion that at least the high-up leaders, like, apostles and prophets, cannot really make any major mistakes. Just tiny ones. Just itty-bitty sins of omission or something.

When I started hearing story after story of misconduct by leaders, it kept grating at me, and really made me feel like inspiration is a hit-and-miss matter. That prophets, apostles, seventies, and local leaders MAY be inspired, but not necessarily so. Some things are true. And some things are just personal opinion and bad or out-dated advice/views.

Anyway, basically, I started thinking more about Church, about Church culture, what is actual doctrine, and what's just tradition. I've read more and more about Church history, past teachings, and current teachings...and wow. It's like I've opened pandora's box of religion, or something.

The funny thing is that as my views and beliefs have kind of changed, and evolved, I've not really dared say much about it. Almost 2 years ago, I posted something on this blog about how priesthood leaders can be bad. A ward members (not a friend) somehow read the post, and passed it on to my then bishop. Without me knowing it, my bishop started reading my blog, and another blog I had started. He also tried to assess my testimony, without letting me know though that he had been informed about my blog by a member who was troubled by  my views on the priesthood. When I arrived in my new ward, and had a temple recommend interview with my new bishop, I was called back into his office a few weeks after. What followed then was one of the most awful Church experiences of my life. My bishop called me and Henry in. We thought we'd get a new calling or something, but my Bishop started asking me whether I still had a blog under this address. I confirmed it, but was confused as to why he'd know about this, and why he'd ask about it. Within seconds I was "on trial". Literally. My bishop told me that he had called my old bishop, that he told him about this blog, and his concerns, and my new bishop suggested that he may have to take my recommend because I had been lying. All the while, I sat there, in shock, with no clue what he was talking about, what I had supposedly lied about, and just in general what the hell was going on. No one had EVER talked to me about what was going on. Henry also just sat there stunned.

It took quite a bit of talking to set the matter right. I called my old bishop, who admitted that maybe he should have talked to me about it, but who did not feel that listening to the tattling of a ward member was inappropriate. No. He said it was all done out of love and concern. Of course.

The reason I share this is because this experience for the first time let me see what it's like when you're being mistreated by a leader. It was the weirdest thing. I barely dared to tell any members, because I was afraid of being seen as the one in the wrong, that I MUST have somehow contributed to being treated this way, or maybe, that this wasn't as big of a deal. When I told a non-member they were shocked I was putting up with such crap, and that anyone would dare treat someone like that over something private like a blog post.

This experience has only cemented my dwindling trust in Church leaders. Add to that, having had major, MAJOR problems with our ward primary president since we've gotten here, and having been chewed out by the Bishop over the issues as well when I tried to bring them to him for resolution.

So, ...what was my point again? I don't know. The truth is that I have very little trust in Church leaders anymore. I really don't. I've met kind, good leaders who truly seek to serve, and who I'm sure seek inspiration. And I've seen the opposite. I've realized that no matter what office anyone holds, inspiration is not a given. And I need to seek truth independently. Whatever someone says, I need to verify that that is true or not.

As I've tried to do that, and as I've read and pondered the gospel more, tried to understand doctrine and culture, I've learned a lot. I've learned muchmuchmuch about those who feel disaffected with the Church. I've learned more about we push  people out of the Church with our dogmatic approach to just about everything. We seem to always be threatened by anyone who doesn't fit the mold, who expressed unorthodox views, and who doesn't do as everyone else does.

Realizing that has been hard. And painful. I participated in something called "Wear Pants to Church" day (google it, if you haven't heard of it). It was just about wearing pants to Church for one Sunday. You'd think something as trivial as the clothing on the lower part of my body would hardly matter. I wore pants to Church for that day, nice dress pants...no one said anything and yet, I found out later, the whole ward has been talking about my pant-wearing ways.

I've started to see...see how much time and thought we dedicate to what people wear, whether they wear skirts or pants, white shirts or not, whether they have just one pair of ear-rings or more. It's like we're getting caught up in rules, and details that have no impact on our Salvation. Mostly, because we take stuff prophets say, and run with the obvious as if it's Gospel truth. Without thought. Without discernment as to whether it's advice, opinion or doctrine.

Ok. I'm rambling. I realize it. But it's just all coming out, and I want to talk about this. I want to talk about how strange it is how we do all these things in Church, some of them we don't even know why. I mean, for example, paying tithing. It seems like some known fact that a "full" tithe is 10% of your income either right after taxes, or before taxes were taken out. Really? How do we know that? There are some scriptures, but those scriptures don't teach that concept. If there are statements from prophets, where are those? How come they're not canonized or easily accessible, considering that paying a full-tithe is something I need to do to enter the temple (something deeply important for my salvation, right?).

I...I don't even know where to start. It's like I've opened the flood-gates of questions. There is so much that doesn't make sense to me anymore. There is so much that still makes complete sense to me. There is so much I believe the same as I've always believed. And much that has changed.

But the reason why I share all this is that the crappiest part of all of this has been feeling like an outcast. Like an apostate - because back in the day, when I heard others share some of the things I'm thinking about, I'd always think of them as apostates. I remember my best friend making a comment to me (before she left the Church) about stuff that bothered her about Brigham Young. And I teasingly called her an apostate. Because...our leaders are always right, correct? Clearly, if you have any doubts, any questions about the Church, that's the only thing you can be.

It hurts so much. And it's felt so terribly lonely. Because, I haven't really changed. I just went to the temple last month. We still pray. We still do FHE. We still go to Church every Sunday. We still read our scriptures. I teach in RS. Nothing is really different. And yet, it feels like everything is. And feeling alone, like you can't say it, because everyone always assumes something is wrong with YOU, just sucks.

I saw this clip a few weeks ago. It's really cheesy (because, that's just what you get when Mormons makes little movies), and I don't like the ending (because, happy endings aren't always what happens), but when Henry and I watched, we still kind of sat there, and felt like this was a pretty good rendition of our situation.

Watch the clip here. http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=nR3uxbxRUz8

And...now I've said it. And there's much more I could say as I've thought and pondered my faith and our doctrines. Like, I think women should be ordained to the priesthood. And that I'll continue wearing pants to Church, unless I feel like wearing a skirt. And I've worn pants to the temple. And I now consider myself a feminist. And that I think we can do so much more to create equality within the church. And that we should. And that I feel it matters.

Read this http://boydpetersen.com/2013/03/21/fourteen-years-later-a-response-to-the-priesthood-mens-last-best-hope/ and this http://www.fairlds.org/fair-conferences/2012-fair-conference/2012-to-do-the-business-of-the-church-a-cooperative-paradigm on the topics of equality within the Church.

I could talk about so much more that I don't feel so sure anymore to be "gospel truth". I could also talk about how I'm not so sure I've got it right, how daunting and overwhelming it is to feel responsible for getting your personal answer on every thing you hear and should act on. Being an authentic person, who acts with purpose and integrity, and tries to really find truth and act accordingly...it's a bit scary sometimes. And so I'm sure I get things wrong. Even worse, going against the grain, going against the status quo, even if you truly feel it's right is not easy. It makes you doubt yourself, and your answers and feelings.

So, again it sucks. And even suckier is the thought that I may post this, and still a lot of my friends may not really get what I'm talking about. Or feel uncomfortable, and withdraw from me...

Life is tricky these days. How did I get here?

What Else...

What else can we report?

At this point, I'm about 2 weeks away from my due date. Not that I've ever managed to get to any of my due dates, but ya know. I'm expecting a baby within the next 2 weeks for sure. We've decided to go with the midwife/home birth route. We were really on the fence about it all (so much so that we tossed a coin, which told us to go to the hospital, and then when I started writing my midwife to tell her "No thanks", I realized it wasn't what I really wanted). Anyway, so at home it is, I guess. Luckily, so far everything seems perfect. Baby is in the right position, my pregnancy has been by the book in every aspect. No group b strep. No nothing. Everything should work out great, and I sure hope it does.

Now, of course, it turns out that Henry has a training to go to this Saturday in Medford (about 2.5 hours away), and Henry's mom has decided to bail that same weekend to go to Sacramento (about 3.5 hours way, though for Grandma more like 4.5 hours away). It makes me a bit nervous. The fact that suddenly both of the people I kind of rely on for this whole birthing business are going be hours away on the same day just makes me a bit edgy and thinking I'll be going into labor that day, all alone with no one to watch the kids or help me make it through labor.

Basically, I'm getting a bit panicky about the whole birthing thing. I know I've done it twice before. But suddenly I'm all self-conscious again, particularly since I'm trying to do this gracefully at home without meds. And then I remembered that there isn't anything graceful about giving birth. Urgh...

What else besides all that? More Church drama. It's really not easy being in a ward with, urm, very unique people. I've just never run into a bunch of people who are so set in their ways. We still have a lot of primary/nursery issues - and the fact that the primary president seriously runs the show like a drill sergeant and is someone who you honestly CANNOT talk to, doesn't help anything. I mean, Henry cannot get through to this lady. And I've never seen Henry not get along with people and being able to work with even the most difficult people. He's just the kind of person everyone gets along with, and he manages to get along with everyone else. Yet, he's kind of ready to just throw in the towel, because he's being so micromanaged on every level it's just not very fun anymore, and whatever he says just gets ignored.

It's tough. And then you'd think maybe you can talk to the bishop. Yeah, maybe. Except, then you also have this bishop who's also this total micro-manager/control-freak, who's wife on top of it all, happens to be the best friend of the primary president (and her counselor). So, you're dealing with this awkward clique thing going on, along with all of these people also being retirees and converts, making them these uber-eager members who're very "by the book" about everything. Arghhhhh....I just want to rip out my hair. It's been seriously tough on both Henry and I to deal with the craziness of it all. But I think we're getting to the point of learning to just ignore the circus and do our own thing - let the consequences follow. Still so frustrating when it doesn't have to be like that.

And what else? Sophia is still loving pre-school. Alba is talking a lot more. And both of them are just being cute and wonderful and fun and crazy and everything else. I should write more about them, but I'm done for tonight.

Here are a few pics. Maybe I'll try and do a more detailed up-date on the kids in the next few days, before baby comes and takes over all our time/sleep etc.

Sophia taking pictures - I thought this was a pretty good one...or, at least better than the one of Henry sitting on the toilet pooping.

Someone got into our dresser...

First egg from our new chickens - the kids were so excited, we had to take pictures. And then they had to touch it, over and over, ...until it broke. Of course.

Laterne Laufen - a German tradition. This time was a bit difficult, since one particular child had only destruction on her mind.

And she did get one lantern in the end...

A little science experiment Henry did with Sophia

Chicken Farming

At last - my post about chicken farming. Basically, I just had to make sure I didn't let the experience of raising chickens go undocumented.

When we got here to Burney, we had a couple from the ward, who had to move a few months after we came. They happened to have 4 chickens, and they couldn't take them with them. Henry had been wanting to raise chickens before (the way he's been wanting to raise a cow for milk, a sheep for milk, and a goat for who knows what), and he jumped at the opportunity. For only $40 we could have the 4 chickens, the coup, any left-over feed, any supplies they had, and...we took them.

Henry arranged for an agreement with his dad that he'd provide the fencing we'd need for our little back-yard chicken area, and we'd take care of the chickens, and share the eggs they'd lay.

By the time we could pick up the chickens, however, only 2 were left. The other 2 got eaten by "something". Oh well. Two is better than none. But it turned out that the one chicken stopped laying once it got moved to our house. So, we basically only had one chicken laying eggs, and we decided that 6 eggs a week weren't worth all the hassle. Thus, Henry set out to get more chickens.

In May, he picked up 2 chickens that were supposedly 10 weeks old. Egg-laying chickens don't lay eggs until they're about 6 months old or so. So, we still had to wait on our eggs for a while, but at least we were expanding the flock. You also need to know that you cannot just add an uneven number of chickens to an "old herd". Chickens can be sort of, urm, cliquish, and they'll peck the newcomers if they're not matching them in number. So, we had to get at least 2. But, before you knew it (I think 2-3 days into it), one of the new chickens had disappeared. Henry thought it had somehow gotten outside the fencing, and gotten lost. No prob - he quickly bought 2 more chickens (also about 10 weeks old), and voila - we had a nice crowd of chickens now (5 total, in case you can't keep track of the numbers).

The non-laying old chicken, however, was a meanie and harrassed the newbies. Thus, we cast her out of the chicken area, and let her just roam free in the back yard. Well, "we" wouldn't be correct. Henry let her. I didn't mind at first, but when she started pecking the windows on the door to the back yard, and would poop right in front of it (thus occasionally having the kids step into bird poop when going outside) - I was getting less enthused about that free-range chicken of ours. I wanted her gone. Henry didn't know how to slaughter a chicken though, and so we just hoped to find someone who'd take her. I hung up a sign, but no luck. Time passed.

One Sunday, we got home from Church, and...meanie chicken was gone. We couldn't find her anywhere. We couldn't find a trace of her. And she didn't return at night. We'd tried before for her to 'just get lost'. But somehow she'd always come back at night and wander into her little cage ( chickens roost at night, which means they want to come somewhere inside/sheltered and hop on a bar or something and sleep?). I was so happy we had finally resolved the pooping, wandering free-range chicken issue.  But my happiness wouldn't last.

A few days later, another chicken disappeared. And it happened to be the only one who was laying eggs at the time. That didn't make me happy. And now our flock of chickens had dwindled from 5 to 3 in just a few days. Chicken No. 2 also disappeared without any signs, so we started to wonder if some hawk or something was snatching the chickens out of their area. We started paying better attention, and actually closing the coop at night. But a week later, when we had forgotten to close the coop, we were only greeted by 2 chickens in the morning.

Arghhhhhh....months of feeding those silly chickens, getting basically no eggs, buying more chickens, and...now we were basically back to square one. It was so frustrating. But hey, we still had our 2 chickens.

Then one morning, when I walked over to Henry's parents' house, past our 2 chickens, I heard a sound. A sound that I wasn't supposed to hear if I ever wanted to get eggs out of those chickens - I heard a crow. A rooster crow. And the crowing sound came very clearly from our chicken coop.

Yup, our one little hen was a rooster. Fantastic. NOT! Those rooster are so loud. Chickens don't really make any noise at all, but that freakin' rooster would wake up the kids every morning with his crow. Alba would start crowing back from her bed early in the morning and silly stuff like that (ok, that part was actually pretty cute). Henry wouldn't believe it at first. He insisted it was a hen, and that she'd only get excited in the morning when he opened the coop and got some food. Sure, Henry. That huge, strutting, feather-fluffing, aggressive, fighting hen with a huge comb on its head that happens to crow early in the morning when the sun gets up is ONLY excited to see you...I named the rooster "Henry's Little Hen", because, ya know..

So, there we were. Months later. Still no eggs. Lots of dead chicken of which we got to eat none, and we were down to 1 hen and a rooster. We were getting a bit tired of trying to raise chickens. It seems a lot easier to just spend 3 bucks at the store and buy a dozen eggs or so than going through all this hassle. But we still had that one chicken. For maybe a week. Then, one night, Henry and I both woke up in the middle of the night because we heard these crazy loud noises coming from the back yard. Henry ran out in a dash...but he was too late. Something had taken the last chicken.

And the rooster was literally the last man standing. I was done. So, when a guy from Church was over at Henry's parents house and said he'd know someone who'd take the rooster, I didn't think twice.

I figured we were done with chicken farming. I was done. But Henry is not one to throw in the towel after going "only" through about 8 chickens. A few weeks ago, he bought more. 3 little chickens, which the owner guaranteed are not roosters, or we can bring them back. We put them in the coop, and the next morning...we were already down to two. Henry was ready to rip out his hair, and I could only laugh.

However, it turned out that we only were dealing with an esacpee. This chicken has gotten out a few times by now and roamed around. I've named her "Houdini" since. As of now, we still have all 3 chickens. They're also younger ones, so they won't lay for a few more months. But, at least they're still alive. However, after watching them for a few weeks now, Henry, his mom and I have a sneaky feeling, we've got another rooster in the mix. Again.

We'll know when we hear the first crow. So, if you're trying to figure out whether it's worth raising chickens...don't ask me. Their manure is great for gardening. The kids love the chickens, and they're actually (to my own surprise), sort of fun and cute little back yard friends. And if you can keep them alive, those fresh eggs may be a real perk. I just wouldn't know about that...yet.

Change

I've never necessarily enjoyed change. I've always needed a lot of time to make friends, real friends. I've always struggled to fit in. At least I can't think of a time where my social interactions have been smooth sailing and something that has come easily to me.

When I moved to the US,  more changes were required. Some more challenging and personally painful than I ever would have anticipated. In many ways, immigrating to the US has been a very difficult road for me.

Sometimes I think I'm making headway, and things are getting better. But then something just happens again to throw everything off.

So, now we're in a new ward. And I've already had this whole "primary" debacle. Last night the bishop came over to talk to us, and we almost got into a fight. (He mentioned stuff that sounded like the whole ward was concerned about my behavior or views, I'm not sure, over this whole primary German thing, and that he couldn't even understand why I made a huge deal out of this, and Sophia's primary language is English, and we speak English in America, and yadayadayada). I'm sure he wanted the discussion to be productive. But it  just left me feeling awful. I hate when people bring "what other people think" into discussions. I hate it. I hate it when a discussion runs along the lines of suggesting that I'm this awful freak, but alas, we'll be nice and forgive and/or we'll love you anyways.

I really hate it basically when discussions end in a way where I feel that despite my best efforts, the other person still doesn't get where I'm coming from. They don't understand an ounce of who I am or what "my issue is". I'm sure I've done this to others. But I'd like to think that usually I try to understand how others think, and where they're coming from.

I'd like to think that with all my flaws and faults, I try to understand people. And I try to get along. And I don't give up when it gets hard. And that I have a forgiving heart. And that I try to accommodate, assimilate and be part of the 'group'.

Now, however, I'm just tired. I'm so tired of it all. I don't want to accommodate anymore. I don't want to listen. I don't want to try to understand anymore. I don't want to fit in, or be part of anything anymore. I just feel tired, and incredibly alone. I honestly don't feel like going to Church here anymore right now. Why try to be part of something when it's so incredibly difficult. I'm so tired of all the drama. Nobody even understands the sacrifices that you make each day as a foreigner that everyone takes for so granted. And I just.can't.deal.with it anymore. I just don't have it in me.

I'm sure that I'm contributing to my own situation in some significant ways that I'm blind-sided to. I'm sure I'm not without fault. But no one, who's never left their homecountry behind for good, and packed up to raise a family in an other place, will ever really understand. And that's why it sucks. Because no one gets it. I get that. But I just don't want to help people understand anymore. I don't want to shut out this huge part of who I am all the time, just for the sake of others. I'm just done with it.

I just don't know what that means. Or what I can even do other than cry and feel incredibly alone, and wishing that there would just one place where I can feel like I fit in, wherever such a strange place may be.

To read more about my experience immigrating you may want to check out this essay I wrote HERE.

Urm, here below this post. I meant to create a link, but that doesn't work. So, I'll just post my essay here (it was published a few months ago in The Exponent magazine. Nice, eh?). Here it is:

Franziska Patterson

Planet Earth

(Columbus, Ohio)

Inbetween

Something was starting to crumble inside of me. I was biking along a beautiful trail in the Provo canyon, with my new husband.  Our wedding day, just a few weeks prior, had been a truly happy day and we were excited for our life together.  But when my husband and I stopped to look at the river running next to the trail, discussing our life as newly-weds, I burst into tears.  My husband tried unsuccessfully to console me, the stream of tears increasing with each question he asked.  I couldn’t quite put a finger on what was bothering me, but eventually I muttered “Who am I?”

That day on the trail, when I suddenly felt lost and unsure of myself, I realized that I had started on a journey that encompassed more than just married life. With my marriage I had not only become a wife but an immigrant. I had left behind a clear definition of self and home, and was left with a gaping hole in my heart that needed to be filled. And the severity of the pain took me by surprise. Naturally, I expected that on marrying I’d most likely leave my native Germany behind for good. I thought I knew what that meant. But I did not. It wasn’t until I was awkwardly trying to sign documents with a new last name that it dawned on me how vastly my core self would be affected by my marriage.

Initially I attributed my shaky sense of identity to getting a new last name and the immigration process.  I had been looking forward to trading my maiden name in for a new last name (my maiden name is about as common as Smith), but once it was gone suddenly I felt like a part of me had disappeared as well. The immigration process added to that sense of loss and confusion.  Having come from a nation that afforded  me any conceivable freedom, it was a rather harsh adjustment to get fingerprinted every time I entered the US, to have to report every change of address, to ask permission when wanting to leave the country for longer than 6 months, to not be able to travel outside the US until I had received a specific document (this was related to my pending immigration status, not to owning a passport), to not be able to vote (as a political science major, and avid voter, this was a real loss), and lastly to not be entitled to government benefits (despite paying taxes like any citizen). In addition, I had to undergo a thorough physical examination that included a genital health check, chest x-rays as well as testing for HIV and other STDs. I was also required to prove my married relationship was real by providing pictures of the wedding, notarized affidavits from friends and, if the USCIS deemed it necessary, provide proof that my marriage had been consummated.  I felt degraded, like a second-class human, and as a modest Mormon woman, simply embarrassed.

But, I struggled beyond the humiliating parts of the immigration process and the loss of freedoms to which I was accustomed.  I also felt tossed about by internal and external cultural dissonances. The cultural differences that appeared more like speed bumps during a temporary adventure while I was a student seemed like steep mountains to climb now that my stay had become a permanent one.  I suddenly worried about speaking a foreign language for the rest of my life. I was concerned about my children absorbing parts of the American culture that were foreign to me, or that I simply didn’t like.  The idea that my husband and children would feel “at home” while I was still a “wanderer in a strange land” (Jacob 7:26) was unsettling to me. I felt obligated to absorb the American culture or forever be an outsider, even within my own family. I wasn’t sure how I could feel at home when “me” felt so different from everyone else. Trying to bring my new life and old self together was a perfect recipe for cultural clashes. The typical German honesty and slight negativity (or realism as I like to call it) that I espoused, frequently came across as rude or offensive. More than once I was accused of hating the US, when all I tried to do was to share my opinion like everyone else. Occasionally it was suggested that if I did not like it here I should simply go back home. Those words stung in particular, because they suggested that I wasn’t home – I wasn’t “everyone else”. And, of course, going back to Germany was no longer a simple decision I could make any time, but a complex issue that involved other peoples’ lives.

Church posed a challenge for me as well. I dreaded the time around Independence Day, when I had to listen to songs and talks that had no spiritual or cultural meaning for me.  There would be accidental moments, like sitting in Relief Society, unable to recite the Young Women’s theme with the sisters because I had never memorized the theme in English that reminded me again of my uprooted state. It was upsetting that even at Church - a place I thought should feel like home no matter what – I felt like I didn’t belong.

And then with all the differences that faced me here in the US, there was also alienation from my home country.  When visiting family in Germany, I would walk into grocery stores, feeling prepared because I had a credit card with me, just to be reminded at the check-out that credit cards weren’t accepted. Or, I would say or do something maybe a bit atypical for Germans (maybe I was being too positive), only to hear how I was becoming “so American”.  Sometimes, it was a little thing such as not immediately remembering a word in German, being surprised that there wasn’t a diaper changing table in the public restroom, or sitting in a room with other women from Church nursing my baby, but being the only one using a nursing cover that tuned me in to my personal metamorphosis.  I seemed to not be German anymore. And yet I wasn’t American either.

My sense of self started to crumble when I got married – and has been under reconstruction since. It has been difficult for me at times to feel at home, to feel like I belong or to simply know who I am, now that I’m married, living in a foreign country.  It has been a journey over the years, and I have not reached my destination yet. But I have found comfort in the thought that this world is Heavenly Father’s creation, and that I, as his daughter, belong wherever I choose to go and be.  He has not created borders or nationalities for his children. I’ve also started to learn to dissociate my sense of self from what is written in my passport and from the customs of my childhood. Instead, I have decided to focus more on the customs of humanity and am finding a new sense of self in our human commonalities.  I used to think that “home is where the heart is” and that the heart, somehow, can only be in one place. A part of my heart will always linger in Germany. Through the years, however, my heart has embraced people and places all over this beautiful world, slowly weaving a net of “home” that spans beyond what I had ever imagined.  Home is where my heart is, but my heart is scattered across the globe.  I am a citizen of the world. I’m a daughter of the God who created this world.  This is my home – and I belong.

The Primary President from Hell

I never would have thought that I'd have the privilege of meeting the worst primary president ever, but I think I may just have found her. And in my  very own ward. Who wouldda thought it. Not me, that's for sure.

What happened, you ask? Oh, let me tell you...

Mrs. Primary President had been a little strange to me from day one. She never really introduced herself, never really was particularly talkative or inquisitive about my children, nor did she bother to explain how they run their teeny tiny primary of currently still 8 kids. Nothing. However, she asked me the first Sunday we were there wether I could teach Sophia's Sunbeam class (since there was one other little girl present that day). Well, since I was new, sick, and suck at teaching kids, I said no, but volunteered Henry. I then added that I don't want him alone with the kids though, and that I'll find someone else to be in there with him. Ever since that day, I think things have been bad with that president.

She tried to organize a formal class for Sophia (the only sunbeam, since the other kid basically never comes), and I said I'd rather have her in nursery for that one hour with the other two kids who are only 5 months younger than her. I could tell she didn't like that.

Then almost 2 weeks ago, I was looking at some sticker chart that they had in the primary room that Sophia wanted to see. She asked me if we were memorizing the Articles of Faith with Sophia. I said no. Anyway, that day it turned out that Sophia somehow didn't get a sticker in primary and it made her sad. I figured it was the whole sticker/articles of faith thing. So even though I think memorizing stuff is not a very effective teaching tool at all, and definitely not something I need to waste my 3-year old's time on, I asked Sophia whether she wanted to earn the sticker and learn an article of faith. She said yes.

The next Family Home Evening, we sat down with her and helped her learn the first one - in German. Since we do everything in German in our home. Then, last Sunday I proceeded to talk to the Primary President after Sacrament meeting to find out about what they do in regards to passing off those Articles of Faith. I figured Sophia could tell her in German while I stand there, and then I can let her know whether she got it right or not. But when I told her that Sophia had learned the Article of Faith in German, she informed me with a smile that "we don't speak German in Primary". I just about passed out. I then said that I don't have to bring my kids to primary then, to which she replied that that would be fine. Double gasp.

I was so shocked that I just left. I was in the hallway fuming, and then figured I probably just need to calmly address the matter, see if I offended her, resolve things etc. But when I tried to talk privately with her, she just said that I had been "unhappy with everything from the beginning", that I had been very aggressive about Henry not being alone with the little kids or Sophia not being alone, and in essence she told me that any exclusion Sophia experiences is my fault because of how I handle things ( I guess she meant me speaking German to her). I left crying.

After days of raging, I tried to figure out what the problem could be to meet such unreasonable resistance. I thought maybe she just felt  misunderstood and unappreciated. Maybe she just couldn't quite understand where I'm coming from, or simply didn't know how to deal with a foreign language situation. I figured, with some love, and listening ears, and careful conversation, certainly the matter could be resolved. So, yesterday morning I brought something to her house that she wanted to borrow from Henry's parents, and figured it'd be a good opportunity to talk. I asked her a little bit about where she grew up, lived, her family, etc. sympathized with her husband having fought in Vietnam, and so forth. I asked her what her perceptions were of our first encounters, and apologized for anything that may have hurt her feelings. I explained that I hadn't been unhappy with anything, and why I felt very strongly about my kids/husband not being alone. I explained that I didn't expect her to take care of those matters. Then I turned the conversation to the whole language thing.

To make a long story short - the lady wouldn't budge. I explained how much it matters to us for our kids to learn things in German. I explained how it's an international Church, how wards and temples across the US and world accommodate all kinds of languages. I offered options (I can translate or stand next to them as Sophia passes off, I could print the Articles of Faith, etc.). To no avail. She said I brought my kids to America, and in America we speak English. When I tried to show all the various Church places who don't live by that policy, she said that they had people who spoke either both languages or had enough people to have Church in their own language. We didn't have that. Then she looked at me all serious and asked whether I really expected her to accommodate our child (like that was an outrageous expectation). I said yes, since it's a small thing I'm asking. She said if it's so small then it goes both ways, and certainly Sophia can do it in English. Then I tried to explain that Sophia was 3 and she was an adult...But at the end of the day, no matter what I said, no matter what I explained, she was firm  with Sophia not being allowed to pass anything off to her in German, or pray in German or whatever. Wow.

Wow.Wow.Wow.

I've never met someone like this. I also haven't felt as angry as I've felt in the last days. I honestly want to punch this woman in the face right now, or say some very hurtful things. I want to stoop to the lowest and meanest levels I'm capable of. I cannot even start to say how upset I am  by her behavior. But apart from her blatant discrimination against my children based on language, the really telling part has been to me that in all of our dealings and conversations, in all of this, not once, NOT. ONE.SINGLE.TIME has she mentioned Sophia, asked about Sophia, or in any other way suggested that Sophia actually matters to her. Actually, I guess she made clear that she doesn't matter when she said it's fine if I don't bring my kids. She has not even suggest or mentioned to maybe discuss the situation with her counselor or pray about it or who knows what. She simply felt the had the authority to tell me how it's happening, and that I'd just have to deal with things.

I really, really, really, really cannot describe the grief, frustration and anger this situation is causing me. I actually don't want to make a scene. But there is no way on earth that I will let her get away with discrimination against my children like this, nor her utter lack of concern for her primary children. The war is officially on. Tomorrow I'll be talking to the Bishop. I don't know if it'll help, but I'm praying and hoping that he'll be reasonable. However, his wife is the president's counselor, and best friend, and backed her up, so...I don't know. If he won't listen, I WILL take it to the next level, but I don't feel optimistic about that either. I do feel that our Church has an overall sucky track record for really addressing and resolving conflicts and problems. And the few times where they try, I think the tendency is to stick with the leadership (because afterall leaders are more important than other members, and programs are more important than the people the programs are supposed to serve...).

I'm just so superpissed. I hate feeling forced to change my life for a nasty person like this. We're considering attending an other ward. But obviously that will come at a great expense to us. Of course, I could just drop the issue, and continue on in my ward, have Sophia learn the articles of faith double, or not at all, and just do our thing. But the fact that I already know that my child is not appreciated, loved or truly cared for makes me VERY uneasy having her in that environment. Clearly her leaders aren't looking out for her best interest. Why would I do that to my child to put her in such a place. Especially if she's the only little child (all the other kids are 7 years and up). It's just a stupid situation. And more so because they called a lady from Hell as primary president.

Goodness. I cannot fathom how heartless and unchrist-like some people can be. I just pray that I can make sure that in my frustration over this, I won't put Sophia in the line of fire. But there will be fire. The lady from hell unfortunately picked a fight with the wrong person. Bring it on, Sister Valentine - Bring. It. On!

The Curse of Fatness

I hate being fat. I hate it. It's that simple. I hate trying on clothes, and having fat roles stick out. Or having back fat. I hate having to readjust clothing all the time.

Before I got pregnant with Alba, I weighted 182lbs. I had worked hard after Sophia's birth to lose all my fat. I made it to 176lbs. My goal weight was 170lbs. Then I had the miscarriage, and ate 6 lbs or so back onto my bones. Anyway, so after I had Alba (like 2 weeks after!) I weighed 181 lbs. Yup, all my baby weight came of within 2 weeks. So, I decided then that I'd use that year to finally reach my goal, and make it to 170 lbs, or at least below 175 lbs. I trained for a marathon, thinking all that running and exercising would certainly help me with my weight loss goal.

After the marathon (in October 2011) I went on a diet, when I still hadn't lost the weight I was looking for. In fact, I had gained 4 lbs. The diet did nothing. Now it's February, almost a year later. I just bought a scale yesterday, and wasn't happy with the truth staring back at me. 192 lbs. Urgh.

I'm so frustrated. It seems to take so much for me to lose weight. We really try to live healthy. I usually don't buy crappy snacks, sugary foods, etc. I've been working out almost daily. And yet, I've gained another 7 lbs in the last 2-3 months. And it's really depressing. I hate looking in the mirror. Even worse, I hate to accidentally look at Henry's facebook page, just to have all his gorgeous, SKINNY!, ex-girlfriends stare at me.

No wonder Henry had issues with my weight/looks before we married. He could have had much hotter women...

Sometimes, (or rather often) I just really really hate my body. I wish I could be beautiful and skinny. And still eat crepes with nutella. But as it goes, I'll just have to workworkwork hard for it. Therefore, starting today, I'll do my Jillian work-outs TWICE a day. And stop eating, except for water and veggies, and nuts or something. Lame, I know. But apparently, just moving, and not eating too much crap is not enough for my body. And being fat is not an option for me.

Sigh...