Going to Church

As a child, I attended weekly mass with my family.  I was expected to put on church-worthy attire and be ready by our designated departure time.  I was expected to participate in the mass, which in the Catholic Church consists of a good amount of kneeling, standing, sitting, and singing.  Further, I was expected to do all of this quietly and without complaint.

I honestly don’t remember any of the above being that big of an issue.  I don’t think I particularly loved going to church.  I just considered it to be part of the routine with which kids are forced to comply, much like going to school and taking regular showers.

My own children’s take on church is entirely different from that of my childhood self.  Truth be told, they don’t seem to like going to church very much.  In fact, I think it’s safe to say that they loathe church.  For reasons that I don’t understand, they consider forced attendance at weekly mass to be a form of child abuse.  

I’m sure my children’s strong church attendence views make it sound like we’re forcing them to participate in some bizarre, untraditional, religious-fanatic type rituals, but nothing could be further from the truth.  Our church is quite lovely and the priests are interesting and well-spoken.  The church is bright and cheery and filled with children.  The music is upbeat and for the most part, on-key.  It’s really quite a pleasant experience, as these things go.

Yet every Sunday a long and painful drama plays out.  It begins at around 8:30 am when I wake up to the sounds of my children speaking in very loud stage whispers that they sincerely believe I can’t hear.

“Jacob! Be quiet!”  Emily “whispers.”  “If we don’t wake up Mom, she might oversleep and then we’ll miss church!”

Miles and Natalie “whisper” agreeably and all decide to turn down their hand-held electronic games a few notches below full-volume.  Even so, I can easily hear every little blip and bleep.  Ever the ring-leader, Natalie slithers into my room and, after satisfying herself that I am still fast asleep, she quickly turns off my clock alarm.  Too bad that task involves a good amount of noisy fumbling in her attempts to find the correct button.  Keeping my eyes closed in “pretend” slumber is easy, but trying to keep my laughter in check proves difficult.

Natalie returns to her siblings and triumphantly confirms her success.  The group responses no longer qualify for stage whispers.

“SSSHHHHHH!” someone yells.  “YOU’RE GOING TO WAKE UP MOM!”

Like anyone could sleep with this commotion going on.  I get out of bed and announce to all that it is time to get ready for church.  Wailing and gnashing of teeth ensue.  For the next 45 minutes, my children do everything in their power to make my life a living hell.

They will beg and plead for a reprieve from church “just this one week.”  They will complain that I am ruining, yes ruining, their entire Sunday.  Possibly even their entire weekend.  They will put on inappropriate clothing, only to completely fall apart when told to change.  They will feign illnesses ranging from tuberculosis to burning eyeballs.

Inevitably, Natalie will delve into a heated, one-sided debate on the inequities of girls clothing options (tights and dress shoes being among her favorite complaints) and Jacob will start slamming doors.  Miles will experience the sudden onset of a severe stomach ailment and Emily will announce that she can’t possibly set foot outside the house without me spending the next hour straightening her curly and naturally unruly hair.

The kids will refuse to eat or drink and will then cry pitifully over their intense hunger and thirst.

Finally, after being virtually dragged from the house to the driveway and thrown into the car, they will spend the fifteen minute car ride complaining about my poor parenting skills and reminding me that I am setting them up for a lifetime of unhappy childhood memories.

All this for an extra hour of playtime on Sunday morning.  I don’t get it.  But I don’t let it bother me too much.  I have no problem being the designated destroyer of all happiness.  Plus, it’s not like God can’t see what I’m going through to expose my children to religion.  My kids might be skating on thin ice but the number of heavenly points I’m racking up each week must be astounding.