By Sara Katherine Staheli Hanks
Over the past few years, I’ve thought a lot about how I’m exactly the sort of woman that Mormonism is supposed to work for. I have pretty much every kind of privilege a woman can have in the LDS church.
Take the motherhood issue, for example. Being a mom in the church is so central to womanhood that leaders promote the belief that all women are automatically mothers simply because they are women, regardless of whether they have children. Womanhood is motherhood, in a sense, and if you cement your commitment to this equation by actually raising children, your status is elevated.
I’m a mother to two kids, both of whom I was able to conceive and birth, and for the time being at least, I’m a stay-at-home mom. My husband goes out and earns a paycheck; I cook (kind of) and clean (ehhhhh, kind of). (Even this doesn’t tell the whole story; I work from home, but since I maintain the all-important “from home” as part of that setup, I’m still in the good graces of Mormon culture and teaching.)
Beyond just having kids and being a stay-at-home mom, I actually like being a stay-at-home mom. It suits me. Furthermore, I feel like it’s really something I choose, not something I’m obligated to do in order to be a good mom or be accepted by those I love. I actually had choices, and I chose this, and I know that I can make a different choice whenever the timing is right.
Like I said: privilege. Whole heaping piles of it. I’m exactly the sort of woman that Mormonism is supposed to work for.
Mother’s Day really brings this home for me, because again, I’m lucky. I don’t have to sort through difficult feelings about infertility or being abused by my mom or having strained relationships with my kids. Those aren’t my experiences.
But nevertheless, Mother’s Day is a loaded day for me. Even though my motherhood situation is rosy and uncomplicated (at least in this phase of my life), if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Feminist Mormon Housewives over the years, it’s that most of my sisters can’t say the same thing.
Since 2014, I’ve been working on a book, a compilation of posts that were published on this very blog during the first ten years of its existence. To my absolute delight, that book finally exists in the actual world. It’s called Where We Must Stand: Ten Years of Feminist Mormon Housewives, and it came out just last week. My co-editor, Nancy Ross, and I are very proud of the work we’ve done and hope readers inside and outside of the MoFem community will appreciate it.
What does this have to do with motherhood and privilege and all that jazz? Well, in the process of reading all the posts published from 2004 to 2014, I encountered a lot of posts from women sharing super vulnerable, complicated feelings about motherhood — the experience of it, the lack of it, the resentment of it, even the meaning of it.
I learned from these women. Experiences other than my own became imprinted on my heart.
I learned from Lisa, prolific writer of the poop chronicles, all about being an actual desperate housewife and feeling like a slug during those moments when the responsibility of caring for tiny humans is just way too much.
I learned from Janet about how infertility can affect everything. Later, after she adopted her son, she taught me even more as she shared how having a disability affects her parenting.
I learned from Emily about the complex sense of guilt that comes from knowing you don’t want to be a mom, wondering if you might be broken because of it.
I learned from Shelah about the strange feeling when it looks like you might be done having babies and you’re not quite ready to let go.
I learned from Rachael about the tender grief of losing a child.
I learned from Sister Butterly about looking into the eyes of the women around you and seeing only ghosts, as so many women’s identities are swallowed up in motherhood.
I learned from Natalie about how it changes you to see your mom dip in and out of drug addiction.
I learned from Mars about the bittersweet love that Mormon parents can have for their gay daughter, whom they believe is unworthy of being with them in the eternities to come.
I learned from Tracy about being a single mom and fighting to reach your educational goals so you and your kids can have a good life.
I learned from Fatimah, in a touching letter to her sons, about raising black children in a society that suspects the worst of them.
I learned from countless commenters on dozens of posts like this one, each sharing their pain or anger or confusion or joy.
I learned about abortion, and post-partum depression, and child abuse, and grieving a mother’s death, and failed adoption, and being a step-mom, and miscarriage, and so much more.
I learned that there are all kinds of reasons for Mother’s Day to be hard. My privilege can’t obscure that fact anymore.
So this Mother’s Day, I’m thinking of my mom (who’s great) and my kids (who are great). I’m thinking of how fortunate I am. I’m also thinking about all the other situations and the real people who live them.
And I’m thinking of Feminist Mormon Housewives, this community that’s taught me more than I know how to measure.
Having this book out in the world is a fabulous Mother’s Day gift, sure, but beyond that, I’m just grateful. Grateful for this space where so many people have been able to look outside their own experiences and see someone they loved on the other side. I’m grateful for this space where complexity has been a strength and a battle cry and a banner of liberty, where we’ve mothered one another and learned to leave the nest.
PS: If you haven’t yet, please consider buying your own copy of Where We Must Stand! A dollar from every book purchased will be donated to the Tracy McKay Scholarship Fund, which helps single moms pursue their educational goals. What purchase could be more appropriate for Mother’s Day? The book features over 130 amazing posts from FMH’s first ten years, along with ten new essays and lots of supplementary material.
