Kneelers

There are some days when I question the generally accepted wisdom of so many parenting books that line every newly pregnant mother's book shelves. Not because I have found universally unsettling tactics employed by many, nor is it due to theories incompatible with, if not flawless, at least practical parenting. Rather, it is their seemingly general disregard for one of the fundamental aspects of successful parenting, that of herding children. A method of survival necessary for any mother visiting such places as the grocery store, the post office and of course, mass.

Therefore, supplied with inadequate mental preparation for my tasks, and unwilling to employ the tactics presented in the sheep dog book, I have been forced to rely on my own motherly instinct, assisted entirely by our guardian angels.

Our little row, usually tucked in a discreet corner, begins preparations for the procession forward much sooner than others, as we must allow for mommy to tell the children to raise the kneelers with, of course, only two of the three hearing her, leaving the third, if he is smaller than the two more audibly inclined children, to be tumulted to the ground. He will find it necessary to defend himself against such an attack by slamming the kneeler back to the ground amidst squeals of "Dat not be nice! I not yike dat!" It will then require enough time to bandage the pride of all wounded, and raise both children and kneelers to their upright positions, that we will now barely make the end of the line. A position we appreciate greatly, as a large amount of space is needed for the children to circle their mother as we process down the isle, each in search of a position, first or last, none are exactly sure of, simply that their own is unsatisfactory. By the time the priest gives his blessing to each, it is desperately needed, not only in its salvific abilities, but also because it signifies the end of the race, and with that, an end to the circling.

Recently, having successfully directed my children out the pew, down the isle and back around towards our sanctuary of seclusion, with very little distraction to those praying around us, I felt myself to be very accomplished in the task of child herding. So accomplished that I failed to remember the most important aspect of the homestretch, the straggling two year old. And as I walked slowly toward our pew, reflecting on the marvels of our Lord made flesh, I realized the growing commotion behind me was most likely because of my straggling tail.

Perhaps in response to his pre-procession tumble, or a disordered need to possess something of his very own, my two year old son was struggling up the isle, dragging behind him a portable, cushioned kneeler, weighing half his weight and two thirds his size. And with each heaving breath and exaggerated heave of his shoulders, he was whispering to the grinning onlookers, with a look that was as much questioning his own authority as commanding it, "I need DISS!"