Although I’m not a social scientist, it didn’t take long for me to figure out that children and the general population do not always meld well.
There’s something about unruliness, noisiness, and impromptu tantrums that seem to push outwardly sane people to the brink. On more than one occasion, I received the evil eye from patrons at a family restaurant. I’ve been scrutinized in a super center for children who smacked, jabbed and poked the nearest sibling. And far too often, I’ve endured a disbelieving gaze along with the proverbial “tsk tsk.”
The hardest combination in the world is children and places where silence is requested. Truth be known, they mix like oil and water, fire and ice, Britney Spears and Martha Stewart.
Therefore I’ve learned to keep my little jewels far away from such environments – especially libraries, baptisms, and beatnik poetry readings.
Although weddings are bad, a church service is the worst. Sadly enough, I’ve attended services when I feared a lightening bolt would surely shoot out of the heavens and strike me down for the angry thoughts that invaded my shouldhave been-praying brain.
I’m not one to make excuses, but you should know that my children’s actions cannot always be deterred by discipline, time-outs or threatening ill consequences. Nor can they be prevented by a long and well-thought-out lecture titled “Does Everyone Recall How to Behave in the House of God?”
I’ve explained to my little dears that there is to be no name-calling once we have darkened the doors of the house of worship. I’ve made it known that wrestling will not be tolerated, pushing is prohibited, and under no circumstances is anyone allowed to throw a punch – even if a brother asks for it.
If I had my way, I’d worship in a pew all to myself. Far removed from the world and my misbehaving brood, I’d have a direct view of the choir, a seat close to the altar, and if all were right, I’d be enjoying a new outfit and a good hair day.
Instead, I’m generally forced into a crowded parent/child/parent seating arrangement that leaves me with a loved one on the right who feels the need to express his every thought, and a kid on the left who constantly wants to know if the service is over yet.
As if that weren’t enough, my children feel little or no need to keep their hands to themselves. Take last weekend, for instance, when two of them started in and I whispered “Stop that” more than once. I shot a glare when it was necessary, snapped my fingers in a moment of frustration, and when I’d had enough, I bent down and said in a tone that surely sounded like the devil himself, “Can’t you see that Mommy’s trying to worship?”
I finally took one of the culprits and placed him on my left. As I grinned at fellow worshipers, I took the other outlaw and moved him to my right. I then turned to see if anyone was staring, smiled at the nice people behind me and then closed my eyes and said a prayer of thanks that the children seated at the right hand of their father were mature enough to behave.
As near as I knew, the rest of the service went off without a hitch. By the time the final blessing came around, my pulse had returned to normal, my breathing had slowed, and a look of serenity had replaced my evil grimace.
“Your kids are a hoot!” a well-meaning parishioner said as he patted me on the back. And the way he was laughing, I knew there was going to be a story related, and that although it amused him, I was not going to be happy.
“Yeah,” he continued without prompting, “did you know that one of your boys who was sitting by your husband was unmercifully picking on his younger brother throughout the service? Well, he was.
“By golly, the little guy just took it for almost the entire Mass, too. Yes sir, fact is, he didn’t retaliate until it was time for everyone to join hands and pray. And that’s what cracked me up. Did you know that he stuck his finger in his nose and then held hands with his older brother?”
I was more than slightly appalled, yet this fellow parishioner thought that was a hoot! He then thanked me for the entertainment and went off to share the Good News.
I suppose I should be happy that the kids could finally perform for an appreciative crowd.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four
sons and the author of the book “Are
We There Yet?” You can reach her at