Past the Glittering Screen

One of the things that really worried me in the beginning of my pregnancy was the gender of our baby. I made sure that we booked an appointment with an ultrasound technician (can you BELIEVE that hospitals won't waste precious dollars on finding out whether anxious parents are having a girl or a boy? It's like they only care about the health of the baby!) and found out just past 15 weeks that we were having a boy. Immediately, I had a huge sigh of relief and felt like a burden had been lifted.

I told everyone that I wanted a boy so badly because I wanted to make sure my daughters had an older brother like I have, that it is a family tradition on my husband's side, blah, blah, blah. In reality, what I was truly worried about was me. I worried that having a girl would make me take a closer look at myself as a woman and have to change (or at least disguise) the insecurities that I have so that it is not passed along to them. I would have to stop complaining about how ugly I feel, how fat I think I am or pick apart every flaw I have, whether genuine or completely in my head. 

I did not want my daughters to look at themselves and other women with a critical eye that never penetrated past the surface to see their true substance. I want them to have intellect, a sense of humor, and a kind heart that will last far longer than their beauty ever could. I want something more for them, but I knew that it would cost me my shallowness and tendency to ignore the heart for the face.

However, finding out I am having a boy has caused me to take a closer look at the world he would grow up in (like most parents do). I started to wonder about what kind of a man I want him to become and how my role as his mom will shape how he views women. I realized that it is my responsibility to shape his view of women and their image.

Via heatherhartstudio

The role of women in the media is extremely disheartening. We are put on display as sexual objects that are only as good as we look. Even looking at journalists, which are suppose to be in a place of professionalism and intelligence. On most news stations, the women look little better than strippers (with short skirts, plenty of cleavage and pounds of makeup), while the men look old enough to be their fathers (and sometimes grandfathers). What is this telling the world? That a man can be taken seriously based on the news he is presenting and women are expected to be their pretty props. This is just one example, but throughout media women are only prized for their looks and not for their fearlessness, love, intelligence or personality.

If I want my son to have a different view of women I need to make sure I play an active role in changing it. The more I critically saw and understood the environment I will be birthing my son into, the more I realized that my responsibilities as shaping my son's understanding of women are just as great as having a daughter. If I am shallow and critical of my body as well as others he will learn to have that same critical eye towards the girls he sees. If I put a woman's worth solely on her looks he will do the same shameful thing.

I want my son to have the same love, care and respect for women regardless of their looks. I want him to see them not as objects for his own gratification, but as partners in the race of life. I want him to appreciate a woman's wit and intelligence instead of her cup size. I want him to be free from the suffocating restraints of society and see life as so much more than skin deep. I want him to see past the glittering screen that the world will try to place in front of him to the true depth and beauty of reality.

So over the course of my pregnancy, I have been making slow and conscious changes in how I treat others: no more snap judgments and a deeper appreciation for the soul of a person instead of their body. I have also been concentrating more on my criticism towards myself. To say the least, pregnancy has not been extremely kind to me and I have struggled with the extra weight and haggard expression I have been carrying around. I have started to try to ignore that and cultivate my soul instead. For the first time in years, I have picked up writing poetry again. I have been reading more and trying to use my mind again.

Because at the end of the day, I cannot show my son more what it means to be a woman and how to encourage and appreciate her than to embody that for him.

The Starting Line.

Via laurenledbetter

During high school, I ran cross country and track. By far the worst part of the entire race was waiting at the starting line. I hated it. I would be dripping with anticipation and shaking as I waited for the gun to go off. It was not uncommon for my teammates to ask if I was OK, or if I needed to go throw up and I would have to assure them, with a face stark-white, that I was perfectly fine. It was a complete relief to be starting the race and getting down to the business of running.

It is the same stomach-churning, shakey-limb feeling Brandon and I have been experiencing for the past few weeks. Between coming to the end of my pregnancy and the prospect of a new job in a new city for Brandon, we have been sitting in anticipation for our new lives to start. 

There have been moments where neither of us need to say what we are thinking, when is the gun finally going to fire? There are no words, we just silently watch my belly, squirming with life beneath it, and the phone, occasionally ringing with concerned family members wondering if we have heard anything. And just when we think cannot take the uncertainty and unknown anymore, we are asked to wait a little while longer. 

Despite the anticipation, the fear, the unknown, I cannot help but think that maybe this waiting is for the best. The worst I felt at the starting line, the bigger the relief when I finally could stretch out my legs and run. When the time comes, the direction laid out and the race has started we will finally be able to stretch ourselves and feel the relief of running towards our life together. Soon, I will be able to run the race as a mother and together we can build our lives either in Riverside or Sacramento. 

It seems like an eternity before the gun is shot, but looking back it was only a precious few seconds. Right now this weekend may feel like an age-long minute, but I am trying to take this time to take a breath, get into position and get ready to run.

Slower

Via thewheatfield

The pressure to compete was taught to me (and, I suspect, most little girls) alongside potty training and Bible Stories. Every Disney princess and fairy tale reinforced the idea that being good was not good enough; I had to be the best. No little girl wants to hear a story about A pretty girl in the land: she needs to be THE prettiest girl in all the land. The message was unmistakeable: your gifts mean nothing unless it beats out everyone else.

As I got older, this lesson manifested itself in how I lived my life and spilled out into every area. Now, it was not enough to be the prettiest. I needed to be pretty AND smart AND funny AND social AND a hard worker AND successful AND busy. Not only did I need to be all these things, but I had to do them better than anyone else. Otherwise I did not have any worth, or at least not very much. 

When I became pregnant I was surprised how this sense of competition increased within me. Every woman came to me to tell me how they only gained 17 pounds, did not show until 6 months along; how their skin glowed, they had incredible energy, and cared for their 11 other children. Next to them, I felt like I had to compete and prove had I had every bit of grit and determination that they had. Each antidote placed yet another burden on my back. It didn't matter that I had morning sickness and could barely lift myself off the bathroom floor; I needed to go to work and prove I am strong. Then I needed to make dinner, work out, keep the place clean, entertain guests and participate in ministry.

At lunch one day, I was told how one worker at the University worked until she left to go to the hospital to give birth. Now I was competing against a woman I had never even met and felt like a failure that I was breaking down at a measly 7 months. This led to a month of no breaks, endless overtime and taking on the most difficult cases.

I became exhausted, overworked and on the edge of breaking down emotionally. All because I felt a need to compete with the ideal Pregnant Superwoman that not only survives, but thrives, all on her own while growing a person inside of her.

And I gave out. First it was emotionally, with endless tears in the shower and prayers that I could find magical strength on my own. Then my body followed when that did not work. It was finally when I landed in the hospital with preterm contractions that the reality dawned that maybe I am not suppose to handle this all alone.

As I sat quietly before the Lord the next morning, His word came unmistakeable from the book of Ruth:

Sit still, my daughter.

There are times to work and be in motion and there are times to be still. How much of life do we miss out on in our rush to catch it? In my striving to be perfect, how many perfect moments have I missed out on? Instead of slowing down and taking some time to be conscious and thankful for this change of season, have I just sighed, ate another piece of chocolate, and gotten back to work, praying all the while that it be over soon? 

Now, I am heeding the direction. As in other areas of life, there are some women that are brilliant in pregnancy. I do well, but not near as well as them. And now I am learning that is perfectly fine. I do not need to shine brighter than everyone else. I am enough as God created me to be. The same is true for you, dear reader.