gina prescott

Yesterday I had the opportunity to teach the young women at church about why they should treat their body like a temple. In preparing for my lesson, I had the overwhelming impression that before we got onto such fun topics as modest, healthy eating, cleanliness, and chastity I needed to really help them examine the fact that just like the temples on the earth today, their bodies are flesh and bone that are inseparably connected to their spirit. Their bodies are glorious and have an amazing purpose ahead of them to fulfill. The task seemed daunting especially as I considered the fact that these girls are in high school.

The teenage years are not a time of healthy body image, in fact those years and the ones leading afterward as we gain a grasp on our identity is when we are most susceptible to feelings of unworthiness. We largely take it out on our bodies, the way we look. We are flooded with images of “perfection,” which if we focus too much on, strip us of self-confidence and ultimately self-respect.

I reflected upon my own journey with body image.

I feel so blessed that my mother was extremely aware of putting too much focus on looks instead of health. There were no weights in my home, instead healthy eating and exercise were modeled and encouraged. My mom didn’t lecture us though. This coupled with the fact that I hit puberty WAY later than everyone else gave me some sort of magical protection through the whole, “I hate my body” age. Sure I wished I was taller and that my hair was a little more manageable but these are normal and appropriate compared to going on a diet to lose 5-10 extra pounds when that weight is an ideal and not a reality.

However, growing a child changes your body entirely. When it is used for such a purpose as growing life, it takes on it’s own form to do so. It stretches and grows and at the end of it all, your body feels completely foreign to you. I had stretch marks, deep ones. I knew they would come for I had seen my mothers own skin with it’s rippled effect. However, I was not prepared for the reality of how it would look on my own body once I was really able to see them for myself. Thankfully the stomach is not something that is shown beyond the walls of my own home, but there was an instance that made an everlasting mark.

We were camping with some friends at a lake over the summer. They don’t have any children yet and the wife and I chatted about pregnancy and I mentioned my stretch marks. I told her how weird they looked and how hard it was to get used to. Out of curiosity she asked if she could see them, I wanted to own them. To not be scared to show the marks of the journey I had made to bring Max to this world and so I was completely willing but still nervous to show her. Our husbands were nearby and I told her husband that it would be best if he looked away. It was one thing to show it to another woman, someone who understands the female body and was merely curious, it was another to show a man beyond my husband the marks on my skin. He looked away but at the last moment it seemed curiosity got the best of him as well. He glimpsed and I saw. I saw disgust. His wife remarked how genetically she felt lucky because stretch marks were not in her future. This reaction combined hurt.

It is hard for me to directly look at the skin that stretch and grew and supported a child and see beauty. When I see my stomach I think of that look of disgust. I don’t blame him, it was an honest reaction to something he had never seen but gosh it took a toll on my body image.

I often hear the phrase that stretch marks are just tiger stripes, a reward of some sort. But to me that seems as stretched as my skin. To me my stretch marks just are. Yes, they are a visible reminder of the privilege it is to bear a child. One of the most glorious of purposes that a female body can imagine is to bear a child. It truly is a miraculous journey and if I have tiger striped to prove it, fine. But they don’t define my body, they aren’t me. My body is not one of disgust. Rather it is beautiful, sacred, and I should treat it with respect. To keep in mind that it is a gift from God. He gave me this body.  He made it capable of doing amazing things. He gave me this body so that ultimately I would learn, “You don’t have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.” -C.S. Lewis.

Our bodies are the earthly temples of our spirits. What makes a temple holy is not it’s beautiful structure, its bright light against the night sky, its pristine, clean, and organize manner but the sacred and amazing spirit within that only exists because of it’s eternal purpose. That is why the temple shines, that is where its true beauty comes from, the inside.

The next time I bought a watch was before my first real job as a camp counselor. I knew better this time, I needed a digital, waterproof guy. I bought a bright yellow plastic watch for about $20 dollars at a local supermarket. During that first week of staff training, I met a boy whose hair matched my yellow watch, he flirted with me and over a week a developed a deep crush. He also had a watch, it had once been blue but had faded to a periwinkle, which I teased him endlessly for. Eventually we swapped watches, a modern day teenage mating ritual. He wasn’t entirely mine yet, but we each had a mark made on each other. He had my watch and I had his.

Over the course of our relationship we kept each others watches and we both wore them until they broke. His on his mission and mine during my first trimester in college. Mine had deteriorated so much in fact, that I used a safety pin to keep it on my wrist, to keep reminding myself of my first love. One night while jumping into a car with friends it fell off. I realized too late into the night and when we returned to the scene of the crime it was completely broken. I felt like it was a doomsday sign and cried in hormonal angst. What did it mean?

Nothing turns out. I replaced the watch with a close match and wore that until it broke (turns out $20 watches have the lifespan of about two years). I bought a simple fake leather band watch at Target for when I had the privilege of working in the temple, that broke in about two weeks and so it became a pocket watch residing in my white dress.

Each watch is indicative of my life at the time it was worn. Watches that told me when to go to sleep, when to daydream, when I would see the love of my life, when I would learn about women’s rights, Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, and my purpose on earth. These watches got me places on time and told me how quickly that time was passing.

The most interesting watch though is the one on my wrist currently. The day I returned home after having Max, I sent Kyle out to pick up a few supplies. He was gone for longer than expected and when he returned home he had a bright white watch that he had picked up. He knew I needed one for the journey of nursing I was embarking on and he knew I had been eyeing white watches but  had yet to make a purchase. I was taken aback because I had just had a baby and the thoughtfulness was overwhelming. I have used this watch well and the band is more of a gray than white now but I love it nonetheless. About two months ago the battery starting going which means that no matter how often I reset the time, it is always ten minutes slow. It has been a math exercise and I have enjoyed the tiny challenge it offers my brain each time someone asks the time. But now the plastic band is ripping and in a week or two this watch will also be gone for good.

This watch reminds me of my firstborn son fully, and in a way I feel like it is extremely telling of where I am right now.

I am nearly half way through this pregnancy and running after a toddler each day the time is passing faster than I can keep track. I feel like I have more time than I actually have. Days of just Max and myself will soon be at a close and I will be given the harrowing task of balancing two children and myself.

To be honest, it scares me wholeheartedly, but I know it’s possible. I know it’s possible because millions of women before me have done it. They have raised children under extreme circumstances, balancing not only two children but two children, and a job, and sometimes they even do it all alone. But that is the other thing, not only am I am extremely lucky to have a wonderful husband, but I also have the assistance of the Holy Ghost to help me each day that I struggle.

So when I buy my new watch it will remind me of the bridge created from where I am to where I will be as a mother of two. It will chart once again when I will nurse, naptimes, as well as playdates and how long someone has been watching Yo Gabba Gabba.

A small watch timeline for you to enjoy. I am missing early pictures of Kyle and I because they are on a computer that was accidentally given away (LONG story). But in essence, Kyle and I, camp, college, reuniting after his mission, and life with Max.

 Time is a funny thing, constantly moving, ticking away, even as we trick our minds into slowing it down and speeding it up. All so we can manage and cope and try to understand in what time we really stand.

I love this child within me, who I am starting to know through listening to heartbeats at appointments and the faint flutters that will soon grow into kicks and jabs.

I love the child snuggled close to me. His breath is rhythmic and easy and I love that I can sweep his hair to the side in love and adoration. He is a constant amusement to me with his new tricks and talents. Yesterday morning as I lay in bed reading I heard him chattering away along with some musical toy. His chatters grew closer and I looked up to see him on his toy phone in my room. He looked up as if I had caught him off guard, his chatters stopped and he ran out of the room. He then resumed his chatters. Whatever that conversation was, it was important and I was clearly interrupting. He is currently eating a Ferrero Rocher in his chair next to me. His legs are on the table and he eats carefully, to make the sweet treat last as long as possible.

My last Valentine was my first real Valentine. He constantly surprises me with thoughtfulness and his awareness of what I need. He is always so giving, in the best way. He doesn’t give things, he gives time and energy over and over again. He always amazes me when he plays with Max, making him giggle like no one else could. I love him. He is dependable, loyal, honest, upright, and incredibly goofy. He make me feel as if the sun is coming from all directions, illuminating everything and keeping warm.

Maxwell is officially 18 months old.

It is bittersweet as I watch him explore and learn more and more and try to converse with me and with others. I grasp at every moment where he surprises me with reminders of how small he still is. The other day we had a few errands that wounded up interrupting his nap time, I tried to put him down like usual but his routine was shot and he was having none of it. So I brought him to me and turned on one of my boring BBC shows and he was out pretty quickly.

Those moments are few and far between and they make me swoon all over again for this precious child.

Today was his first day going into nursery at church (Nursery is the younges “class” for the children starting at 18 months until 3 years and then they are in a more formal class setting). He did superb and the teachers said they wouldn’t have known it was his first time otherwise. I know he was just chumming it up with friends and relishing in snacktime.

Some fun stories about Max:

-each morning we bring him into bed with us when he wakes up and he starts the day by reminding us where each of our noses are, our eyes, ears, hair, mouth, cheeks, and chin. It sounds like this, “There’s your eye, there’s your nose…” We keep adding body parts each morning.

-He loves Goodnight Moon and My World which are sister books. He will grab them off the shelf and stare at the pictures all by himself.

-Any vehicle on wheels is a chhoo chhoo (It started by reading his train book) and he is persistent when we try to correct him with the word “car” or “truck.”

-He holds his lightsaber toy upside down and treats it like a vaccum.

-He calls snow, “nosh.”

-He can and will seat drop on a 1-2-3 command.

-He will play farkle by himself for a good twenty minutes if you let him.

-When he plays the piano and finds the beat button his starts to kick his left leg to the side with the beat

-He must sit dead center in your lap

-If you ask him, “where’s mama?” in a slightly panicked voice he bends his knees low and shuffles his feet really quiet to try to find me, in case I attack him.

-I taught him the sign for cracker which in hindsight might have been a mistake because now all he wants are crackers.

-If there is a treat he really wants (i.e. he found a reeses), he will bring it to you and say thank you so matter of factly that it sounds like he is trying to trick you into giving it to him.

Allright. Enough of that. Unless you want more. Then let me know.

It has been a couple of weeks since I last wrote anything. Lots of things have been going on, my grandfather finally passed away probably being one of the most notable. He suffered from ALS for four years and I was so happy to hear he had finally passed. But isn’t it sort of strange to be happy that a person has died? So there I was happy but sad.

Then it was Thanksgiving and I had to deal with the mental hardship of going home for the holidays. It always seems to be a good idea but then I get there and realize it is exhausting on my part. I always wonder if that exhaustion is preventable and so while I am there I try all sorts of experiments like drowning myself in a book or trying not to care too much how things turn out.

Basically life has been kind of like a roller coaster lately, except a mirror fun house is probably more accurate. A roller coaster is full of ups and downs and really isn’t all of it sort of thrilling? The suspense of the fall, the fast turns and even the flips upside down can be sort of exhilarating, if not in a jarring manner. But imagine a room full of crazy mirrors. You know the ones that are all disjointed and emphasize some part of yourself that makes you groan or giggle.

That is my life lately. I feel as if I keep noticing these enlarged weaknesses around me and the mirror just blows them up into epic proportions. Sometimes I laugh, sometimes it seems just so overwhelming that I collapse and then turn to another mirror that focuses on something else.

But every now and then I catch a glimpse in a regular mirror. No distortions, no funny engorged body parts or super long legs. Just reality. Sometimes I like what I see, sometimes reality can be just as jarring as the crazy mirrors. How sweet it is though, when you see yourself for who you truly are.

Those crazy images can stick in your mind and alter your perception of yourself, but you have to focus and remember the images you like.

Like the other week when Max and I shared a clementine. He was sitting on the table and we peeled it together and separated each slice. He would feed me and I would feed him and it made us laugh. It was simple but I saw a glimpse of myself in that moment and I liked who I was.

I have been looking for that girl woman since.

I see her a lot more than I suspected. She is there to tickle necks of sore throats and she is there reading “Anne of green gables” for the first time (I know…I can hardly believe it either) and smiling all the while.

She is finding herself more and more as a mother and as a wife and ultimately as woman. She also has a knack for speaking in third person.

I still see those fun house mirrors around me but I understand that the parts of me they are stretching and enlarging is just that—they are enlarged only in my perception. Reality is that they are there, but they are in their proper size and in proportion to everything else.

And I can definitely handle that.

My imagination runs wild with images of perfection. I see myself dressed adorably, playing cheerfully, food simmering away on the stove. My home bright with light and laughter, there is a slight mess akin to a strand  of hair out of place.

Obviously that is not my reality. When I look around I see blocks dumped out, board books littering the floor like a game of hopscotch, we pulled the cushions off the couch to teach Max how to jump off things and I have zero desire to put them back in their place.

I sit here on the floor in front of the heater listening to my husband clean the dishes and wipe down the counters. Every now and then he asks for me to bring him something and my inner diva sighs with annoyance from being disturbed from my web browsing.

It’s funny when we compare our imagination to our reality, we realize how short it falls. It can  be exhausting as a mother to attempt perfection every day but I feel like we are all trying in the best way to we know how.

A little push and pull and finding the right balance between investing in ourselves so we don’t want to pull our hair out and investing in our home, our children, our husband who are all silently asking for time and attention and a little tender love and care.

I struggle with this, I really do.

In my attempt toward  perfection something always gets the short end of the deal. At the end of the day, when I realize who got the worst of it I feel awful. I didn’t spend enough one on one time with Max, I chose to catch up on tv rather than talk to Kyle, I completely ignored the growing pile of dishes and crumbs that litter the counter in my kitchen. Often multiple things get slighted as I claim rights for myself to completely veg out and try to forget about all those nagging things.

So where do you find the balance? Time and time again I try to look for it in investing in myself because I know that that is necessary. But how do I go about investing in myself. I watch television, go on the hunt for a new pair of jeans, buy some lipstick, google ways to clear up adult acne and swear that I will buy whatever it is at whatever cost to cure myself from feeling less than gorgeous. It seems as if I am investing in myself but really I am just investing in the empty promise that is always out of my reach.

So what should we invest in?

Invest your time in a good book, the scriptures or something else that lifts and enlightens. I am not talking about smutty romance novels or whatever else is easy for you to read. Choose words that challenge the mind. The scriptures are a great place to start especially because they help you develop a relationship with God which is CRUCIAL for personal sanity a midst pretty much every circumstance ever.

Pray, write in your journal, go for a walk, go for a walk while listening to India.Arie, develop a skill (sew! knit! cook! learn how to shoot a gun!), invite friends over, but most of all…

stop trying so hard to be perfect by investing everything in that which doesn’t last.

But do try to reach toward perfection. Try to find that which is good and then call upon support from higher sources, for when we do try in all the right ways leaning upon assistance, we will eventually gain the right kind of perfection.