peevish mama

Today is Sunday and as I sent Saint James off to mass with Doctor Dash, I felt that all too familiar twinge of guilt.  Saint James had his first communion about a month ago and I am trying, like hell, to get him to mass every week.  Sometimes we rally the troops and go as a family, stashing Devil Baby in the nursery for a blessed hour of peace.  Of course each time we do, she gets pink eye or some nasty cold, as punishment for the fact that we aren’t volunteering to take care of other peoples’ infested children.  (Yes, on some level I do believe in a tit-for-tat, lightning bolt wielding kind of a God).  Most of the time it’s easier to ditch the dead weight and one of us will just take Saint James, so he can take communion, so he can say the Lord’s Prayer, so he can start to experience the ritual and the comfort in attending mass with some degree of consistency.   

There are other families who all go, all the time – the infants nap peacefully as the mothers sway to the music, the toddlers scribble with crayons or eat Cheerios like contented little cherubs . . .  not a one of them is wearing a tie-dye shirt  or Vans with skulls on them or lying down in the aisles.  I have never had those kind of children.  It goes without saying that Devil Baby has never sat through mass, but neither have Supergirl or until recently, Saint James.   Ten minutes in church pew seems to bring on a Sahara Desert thirst for Supergirl – a Pavlovian response to the water cooler with little paper cups located in the vestibule.  She never fails to sashay down the center aisle with her cup in her hand, like she’s traversing a cocktail party.  I’m not sure what the policy is about beverages in church (aside from the sacramental), but when I need to rehydrate after overindulging on a Saturday night, I try to keep it on the down low.  

I’m ok with my children being heathens until age 7.  

I’ve decided to go with the “down the hatch” theory.  It has worked with swimming, reading and potty training, and I don’t see why it won’t work for church.  I’ve got three kids: 7, 5 and almost 2.  Obviously they’re all at different developmental stages and since I am only human, I just take’em one at a time. 

My tally to date is as follows:  

reading:1;

swimming: 2; 

potty training: 2;

mass ready: 1.  

As long as they all end up literate, water-safe and inoculated against fanaticism* (and preferably, moderately Catholic) I will have done my job.  They will feel appropriately guilty when they skip mass to read a book in the pool and all will be right in the world.

*  I need to give credit to my friend and neighbor for the phrase inoculation against fanaticism; it’s his stated reason for dragging his three adorable, sleepy, crabby pubescent boys to 9:30 mass.  I’ll call him Ten Gallon because he wears a cowboy hat so well.  He also wears slippers to church and I love him for that.  He’s married to Gigi the Animal Whisperer and Neighborhood Scat Expert (Gigi, for short).  She runs around in a down vest and wellies and identifies poo.