Today’s guest post comes from Rebbie Brassfield, a copywriter in Los Angeles.
I was 29 years old and just discovering our infertility when I got called as the Primary President.
This calling was so far from any natural ability I possess that I had not seen it coming. Not even when the Bishop invited us to his office on a Saturday. Not even when the words came out of his mouth.
I sat there stunned, unable to hide my dismay. It made no sense to call a childless woman to be in charge of a bunch of kids – what could I know about them? Not to mention that since growing up I’d always been self-conscious of the fact I wasn’t naturally “good with kids.” I worried over how I would fare as a mother when I seemed to be the only one of the Young Women who disliked babysitting.
I was currently serving as the Primary secretary, and the calling had been both a reminder of the children I yearned for and a potent birth control. Each week I sat in the back, awed that such small people could wield so much power. They rarely behaved or folded their arms or listened – some weeks it felt like they intentionally rallied to torch the whole lesson or bleed the teacher of all her candy. They frankly terrified me, and that terror swirled in my mind as I sat looking up at my expectant Bishop.
I found my voice enough to tell him how unqualified I felt, that I would happily serve anywhere else, and to ask, was he sure he’d felt prompted to call me?
“It’s not about being qualified,” he responded, “because there’s only one thing that really matters: do you love the children?”
I honestly didn’t. But what else could I say?
“Yes,” I lied. And we left his office quickly so I could throw a tantrum in the car.
I’d never been one to gripe about callings, but I was in a strange place with my testimony and had really been in the mood to coast at church. Even more annoying was the sense I had that I’d read this story in the Ensign before – the crotchety 29-year-old working girl who learns to swoon over kids because that is who God-fearing women should be!
Maybe you’re thinking I should have just said no. But I couldn’t bring myself to, because the ward was small and struggling, with hardly enough active members to fill the leadership callings. Blessedly, this meant the primary was small (30 kids) and the bar was about two inches from the ground. I thought of my sister-in-law serving in a Utah primary with 100+ kids and figured it could be worse.
It was bad in the beginning. Our numbers were small but also wildly inconsistent, swinging from 8 regulars to a horde of 40 (thanks, Disneyland), which made planning near impossible. Inconsistent teachers also meant my counselors and I often had to teach Sunbeams at a moment’s notice, for a whole hour!
I did what I could to make up for my lack in experience and confidence, surrounding myself with women who had kids, or taught school, or were trained music therapists. But there was infinite potential for chaos, and my Type A personality was so desperate to bring some order, that soon I found myself exhibiting unrecognizable behaviors.
I gave elaborate object lessons, with objects I’d hand-made. I sang children’s songs a capella (I’m an alto, bordering on tenor). I’d hear myself speaking to a kid in baby voice and then wonder if I’d been possessed. I made a fool of myself in every imaginable way, desperate to maintain some control. In the process, I made a game-changing discovery: kids are hilarious. One Sunbeam raised his hand every chance he got, and his answer was always, “Jesus.”
Why do we say prayers?
Jesus.
Who made the earth?
Jesus.
Why did Nephi and his brothers go back to Jerusalem?
Jesus.
He wasn’t wrong.
The kids’ delightful hilarity became a barrier breaker that allowed me to let go of some of my fears and begin to adore them. But even as I became more comfortable in my calling, the pain of infertility grew.
Both my counselors became pregnant within a few months. Both commented that it had happened more quickly than they’d planned – offhanded remarks intended to express their (wholly valid) stress, but which still felt like a smack in the face. Somehow every primary activity landed on a day I had learned I was yet again not pregnant. I’d smile through it, escaping to a spare classroom when I could to curl up in fetal position, fighting the pain of menstrual cramps, the pain of not being pregnant.
It was hard to not read into the timing of it all. Was God preparing me for motherhood? Was he punishing me for waiting? I reject the idea of a punishing God, but have you taught a dozen Sunbeams on a moment’s notice?
I found my subconscious (or perhaps years of Sunday School conditioning) trying hard to cast myself in the Ensign story. I was the childless woman, given an opportunity to love the Primary children as a substitute for the ones I didn’t have. But I couldn’t buy it.
I couldn’t buy it because it is not the only story there is. It’s just the only one we like to tell: that women in the church are mothers and if not, they can make up for it by serving kids another way.
I do not say this to belittle the service so many childless women give in Primary organizations — I revere and respect women who serve wholeheartedly in positions that may also bring them pain. I’m glad there are avenues for childless women who want to nurture young kids to do so, but that is not my story.
Though I grew to love the kids, that love did not make up for the pain of my own childlessness. Though I loved them, that love did not transform me into Mr. Rogers. Every Sunday was scary. Every time I stood to give a lesson, I felt an anxiety I wished deeply not to have. Every week intensified the loneliness of being a Latter-day Saint woman when what is supposed to be innate does not come naturally to you.
I grew to love the Primary children because I served them. Just like I would have learned to love the women if I was a Relief Society President or the people of Thailand as a missionary. I have come to wonder if perhaps that is what makes a mother’s love so strong – not her inherent motherness, but the fact of her whole-self service. I can’t say, because while I have since moved out of the ward where I served as Primary President, I am still slogging through infertility.
All of this may go without saying; it may be merely a projection of my own insecurities. But I hope that when we tell stories of women and children, we do so with care. I hope before we use bitter childless schoolteachers as cautionary tales, or before we call Mid-single women to Primary, we give grace to their pain. We understand if they say no. We don’t equate babysitting with motherhood.
I hope we don’t always assume that the Primary President loves kids.
Photo by Jose Antonio Gallego Vázquez on Unsplash
