My kids are ages three and under, but I talk to them about God. I tell them the Bible stories, teach them about showing love to others, and have even sprung for a teething rosary. And every Sunday, we have “the church talk” on our way there, reiterating why people go to church and why it’s important to be as calm and quiet as possible: though today they are too little to fully grasp what we do there, it’s a place full of people we don’t want to disturb as they try to listen and pray.
And despite these measures, the torrent of infantile wailing and gnashing of teeth that so often awaits me in that Sunday service is almost enough to trigger an existential crisis.
I grew up attending weekly Catholic Mass and then studied religion in college. (Shocking to most, I understand. No hard feelings.) The church has always been a place I could go to find peace, learn, and connect with something bigger than myself. Since my kids started joining me three years ago, despite having still attended Mass almost every Sunday, I may have heard four minutes of sermon, total. So it made me wonder — as both a woman of faith and a mother of young children who could pass for your average exorcism candidates some Sundays — why bother taking them at all?
Here’s a general breakdown of our family’s church experience:
- Preparation. Getting there on time requires careful forethought (and, regretfully, sometimes our not church voices). We need to pack snacks to occupy them for at least the length of the homily — they can’t be gooey, smelly, or easily scattered. We need toys that are quiet and small but engaging, easy to spot when “accidentally” dropped under the kneelers, and not so hard as to cause physical damage when thrown directly at the people in front of us. It’s a lot like preparing for any other outing, but with a greater emphasis on showering first and bonus points for religiously themed pop-up books.
- Being distracting. Sometimes, my kids distract the sea of faces behind us in an endearing way, with adorable expressions or by playfully cooing. (Some people become totally uncomfortable by this — I do catch your vibe, teen girl, but it’s keeping my baby quiet to stare unflinchingly at you so I’m not going to stop it.) Most of the time, however, the kids are unsuccessfully doing tricks on the kneelers and falling, trying to eat the “raisin” they found on the floor, or screaming because the ACOUSTICS ARE PHENOMENAL. They send me chasing them down the aisle. They lift their feet to my chest while I’m holding them and push off like determined little competitive swimmers. And whether it’s due to a crying baby, a potty emergency, or just an unstoppable need to run to the back and slap the decorative stonework, we seem to be out of our seats as often as in them. Their behaviour is nothing unusual for kids their age, but it’s amplified by the ceremonial environment — and everyone seems to notice. Despite my best efforts to contain their distracting presence, I fear those sitting around us leave contemplating little but the Church’s stance on birth control. I generally leave only sweatier, and brimming with thoughts that should probably land me in confession.
- Is it a holiday? Better double dip into the holy water. It’s Christmas Eve, the candles cast a solemn and mystic glow over the impeccably decorated church. The house is packed — not even standing room left — and your kid is SO FUCKING EXCITED/TERRIFIED ABOUT SANTA COMING TONIGHT THAT HE IS LITERALLY SHAKING. Everyone is hopped up on red and green M&Ms and itchy from their overpriced, matching ensembles. The family in front of you is playing with some toy that your kids are actually hanging over the pew to gawk at, squealing how Santa will bring that to your house tonight. (How’d you forget that one, MOM?) Your newborn is crying hysterically because her nap got cut short to make it to this service, but you are claustrophobically trapped where you stand because of the crowds. Everyone you went to high school with is back in town, watching this unholy breakdown and silently thanking God that they are in a stage of life where they can still go drinking tonight. Please, God, give us one more silent night, eh?
I want my kids to experience firsthand a congregation full of people gathered to worship together, to feel like a part of this vast family. After all, that’s how my siblings, husband and I were all raised. As very young children, we learned to sit still and respect what was going on around us, except for the time my husband sat under the pew, ranting, “I AM THE DEVIL!” And except for the time the man in front of us kept glaring over his shoulder because my brother was crouching under the pew and tickling his feet as he kneeled. And except for the time my sister was hauled, kicking and screaming, down the communion line: “I WANT. THE BODY. OF CHRIIIIIIST!” (Those wafers did look delicious in the pre-First-Communion age, no?)
There is almost no reason for these to exist, except as pretend Eucharist for baby Catholics.
So maybe there’s a learning curve to all this quiet reverence. Most of us got there eventually. And until my kids do, you will find me whispering to them to look around for angels, to admire the beauty in the biblical art surrounding them, and to remind them that this is God’s house so please stop climbing on the furniture. We strive to disrupt as few people as possible, and I don’t intend to let them bring snacks and toys forever. But sometimes, when my daughter is dancing to the music in the back of the church, or when my son is singing “Hallelujah” with his adorable toddler dialect muddled by graham crackers, I can’t help but feel the love we all came there for.
Today, their favorite part of church is dousing themselves in the well of holy water and pondering sacred mysteries like, “Does God sell animals?” But I hope that one day my children will feel at home within these church walls because it was a place we took them over and over, passing our faith to them and reminding them how special it is — and that one day their own children will give them a dose of holy payback. Like that page of the hymnal one of them just ate, this too shall pass.
Pizza be with you all.
DISCLAIMER: This post is intended only to reflect a recurring struggle I find myself dealing with as a mother. I wholly recognize that there are so many other ways to nourish the hearts and souls of our children, most of which are probably even more fulfilling and less peppered with the steely gaze of the few unyielding elderly. I have full respect for parents who choose not to take their kids to organized religious institutions, and also for those who leave their kids at home or make use of a “cry room” or nursery. I just assume you’re all going to hell. JUST KIDDING LOL.
(This post originally appeared on Choking on Applesauce.)
About the author: Catherine Naja is former journalist and mother of three under age four. She is a Huffington Post and Scary Mommy contributor and the voice behind www.ChokingOnApplesauce.com, a forum dedicated to seeking out the humor in all of motherhood’s most cringe-worthy moments. Find her on her blog, on Facebook, or repositioning someone’s blanket for the 978th time during any given nap time.