“Every part of my life had been dictated by the rules of Mormon men.
I didnt know my own mind.”
The bishop offered us a handshake and a prayer, and settled behind his desk.
Brother and Sister, welcome!
Tell me about yourselves.
Wed been together for five months engaged within a month of meeting and married four months later.
I was a substitute teacher.
Rick was working construction.
We lived in a tiny apartment, with no health insurance and a combined savings of $300.
Are you aware of the prophets counsel on having children?
the bishop asked, looking directly at Rick.
We blinked at him awkwardly.
The bishop stared at Rick with commanding eyes.
Heavenly Father will bless you, he said.
The prophet urges us to not delay.
I was pregnant by August.
A week before our wedding, I told Rick he shouldnt marry me.
I wasnt sure that I could be a devout Mormon wife and mother.
The church had an explanation and a rule for everything.
My life was prescribed to me by men.
The penultimate goal: a temple marriage.
The ultimate goal: a gaggle of children to indoctrinate.
The church has manuals for each year of childhood.
How to be a neighbor, a friend, an obedient servant of the Lord.
How to spend time and money, stay sexually pure, repent of sin.
How to become worthy.
Doubt was the devils work, and it had festered in me since I was a small child.
I felt suffocated by the rules, but I knew no other way.
You are the one for me, Rick insisted.
He thought the Lord would fix me.
By our third anniversary, we had two baby girls, 15 months apart.
Each night in bed, Rick read aloud from the Book of Mormon while tears leaked into my ears.
Rick finally recognized my suffering, and we broke free.
I quickly discovered that leaving a world of blind obedience was, in a sense, like death.
Every part of my life had been dictated by the rules of Mormon men.
I didnt know my own mind.
I did the easy things first.
I bought tank tops and colorful underwear and shorts that did not skim my kneecaps.
I sampled gin and vodka from tiny bottles.
I spent money on Sundays.
I dared to say the word fuck out loud.
Firsts happened in the bedroom, too.
She was hosting a ladies night with other moms on the block.
If she mentioned it was a passion party, I was too innocent to catch on.
She greeted me at the door with a hug and rattled off a list of wines.
I had never had wine, so I just pointed at an open bottle.
My soul left my body when the dildo made its way into my lap.
Everyone can see me holding this penis and this wine.
Someones mom can see me.
We were all given plastic sticks with a swipe of birthday cake-flavored lube to suck off.
I applied the cream with an obedience not unlike what I once used to navigate secret temple rituals.
Someones mom has been in here, touching her clit.
I am someones mom.
My clit was on fire as someone poured me a second glass of wine.
Eventually I found myself in a home office alone with the saleslady and her suitcase.
I did not order the beaded dildo.
I was following the rules of the party.
My sex education had consisted of a variety of lessons at church.
Our teacher gave us gum to chew, and then asked us to spit it in the trash.
Without our chastity, we were told, we would be used-up gum that no man would choose.
I learned that losing my virginity before marriage was akin to murder.
The sex scenes filled me with shameful desire and a sexual vocabulary limited to his shaft and her mound.
I realized how vast the work would be to grow myself up.
As our girls began preschool, my desire to know the right way to mother was all-consuming.
Is it OK to let them play with a pretend coffee maker?
Should preschoolers wear a two-piece swimsuit?
A sundress with thin straps?
Is it bad to take the Lords name in vain if we dont believe in the Lord?
The older my girls got, the deeper my yearning for those glossy church manuals grew.
Mormon children are taught to speak in front of the congregation each month.
With that knowing came all the answers wed ever need, given to us by worthy men.
Without Gods plan, I dont know what Im doing was the incessant white noise in my mind.
I was trying to teach my daughters a language I had never heard before.
I let them wear sundresses.
I felt out of control, with no sense of the consequences of my choices.
Knowing my own mind was slow work.
I learned I like pinot noir and black coffee.
I learned I could skip cake-flavored lubes.
We barreled into the tween years.
I confided in my mom friends, and they assured me they felt stressed too.
They worried about grades, carpool and vegetables.
But I wanted to know… should kids wear eyeliner?
Wear a top the size of a sports bra to school?
Sex and relationships in the teen years has been a hum of low-grade panic.
I want someone to take over this part.
I want to be their guide.
Surely, there is a space between no plan at all and already-chewed gum.
I told her I was considering buying my teenagers vibrators.
She gasped loud enough to draw attention.
She couldnt imagine a worse idea.
But Im not sure.
I want them to know their own bodies to enter sexual relationships from a position of confidence and understanding.
My friend was scandalized.
Theyll get one for themselves as adults, she said.
Shes sure Im crossing a line.
Am I going too far?
But Im starting to understand that the right decision isnt in a manual.
Its the one I will make.
Our kids are now 20, 19 and 14.
Im no longer Mormon, and no longer a stranger to myself.
I thought I was leaving my Mormon heritage behind.
Modern parenting is the new frontier.
I still envy their certitude, the way they were free of the burden of answering their own questions.
But the manuals of men no longer contain my answers.
Like every mother out here in the wild world, we must write our own.
Meg Poulin is a freelance writer and textile artist based in Connecticut.
Shes passionate about telling the truth about motherhood.
She is currently helping her three children move into their own wide worlds.
This article originally appeared onHuffPost.
