Paying Attention?

In an effort to increase spiritual awareness and decrease paternal stress, and with the knowledge that a pea sized offering a sugary bliss would eventually be outgrown, I relented to the temptation to bribe my children into Gospel awareness.  They needn't explain concepts or expound upon parable implications, I simply asked for a word, a name, anything at all to show that they were paying attention, with the hope that genuine interest would eventually replace skittle driven ambitions.

What pleasure I felt with the success of my plan, when Peter leaned close to me during mass and whispered, despite his grinning from ear to ear, "I know what it was about, Mom!  I know!"

"It's about some guy who had ten leopards!"

He was later rewarded with a skittle and a discussion on leoprosy.

How Many?

Peter has discovered numbers and the magical ability to count as many of them as his little mind can hold. As one would expect of any stubbornly intelligent child, he is determined to count to the highest number possible. Aside from the personal amusement of his father and I at seeing the development of his will in such a definitive way, we have found a wonderful use for this gift of perseverance, guaranteed serenity at mass.

We have found that counting to the mid two hundreds is good for an entire reading, and the four hundreds can pacify for almost the entire liturgy of the Eucharist. And in moments of desperation, a quick, "No way, I don't believe you actually counted that high," with the intense expression of disbelief on your face, is enough of a gauntlet to coast on through to the final blessing.

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!"

It is never a good sign, when your two year old approaches the holy water fount
by first rolling both sleeves up above his elbows.

Mass-In-Sanity

Recently Jeremiah and I have decided to make attending daily mass a higher priority in our lives, knowing we could both benefit from the sacramental graces, especially as the children's reasoning skills become more fine tuned.

But, simply walking into daily mass with four young children is a commotion in itself, before ever braving the dreaded monotonous homily or the solemn silences of the consecration with a two year old whose attention span is fitting of his age and a five year old who is certain his command carries the force of a king, or at least enough to dictate every action of his distracted little brother. And then there is Luci, with whom the slightest glance from the grandmothers behind us excites squeals, jumps and echoing growls. Which in turn, enraptures big sister to the point of awkwardly dragging both baby and mom to the ground in an embrace that is as desperate as it is clumsy.

Therefore, fully aware of our potential notoriety, and perhaps because of our fixation on its possibility, we entered mass the other day with our mission firmly in our minds, to get in, restrain arms, legs and mouths and get out. As we made our way past the Holy Water fount, we realized our eldest two were headed for the pivotal front row, a row given to the saints, those who are declared such by all observers because their children behaved so well during mass or those who are pushed into sanctity by the extreme humility required to gather one's pride along with the children after they have drawn the attention of an entire church. Either way, this day we felt our sanctification could come through less public means, and so a tip-toed chase down the isle began.

Only moments later, having safely secured a pew in the back, we realized, due to the serene atmosphere around us, the absence of our two year old. Retracing our steps, he was found in the place we so hastily left him, by the Holy Water fount, and in typical two year old form, was eager to continue the activity which had captivated him for the past two minutes, having discovered the hand in the form of a cup, is much more effective for blessing oneself with Holy Water than only a few daintily dipped fingers.

With renewed vigor and an awareness of the battle yet to come, I suppressed my laughter and escorted our son, holy water still rolling off his saturated bangs, to our pew discreetly tucked in the corner.

Confident that the theory of leading by example is true, and hopeful in the effects produced by large quantities of holy water, Jeremiah and I stationed ourselves between children and stared actively at the priest as he processed down the isle, when a sudden echoing thud caused us to turn in bewilderment towards our oldest daughter. We watched in amazement as she held on to the pew in front of us, leaned back until her arms were fully extended then slammed herself, with great determination, back into the pew. Fearing the entire church would soon notice our four year old's convulsions, we flattened her into her seat in a hope to discern what had possessed her to act in such a way, and if the explanation were not that simple, then to at least discern what she might have been thinking. Upon investigation, we realized she had gently propped her book up on the back of the pew in front of us, and was proceeding to conduct an experiment to determine the exact velocity her body needed to reach in order to dislodge the book and send it flying.

Refusing to be bested by childhood curiosities, we are continuing in our pursuit of sanctifying grace, and the humility necessary to make the best use of it, and so, you, Our Larger Lot, can expect more installments of Mass-In-Sanity.