Good God: Bringing Two Toddlers to Church

I haven't finished a prayer since 2009. That's the year my first son was born. Nowadays, when I'm kneeling in church and looking to the sky and Antonio is poking me in the ribs for his fifth snack in three minutes, I opt to be succinct and say simply, "You already know." But that said, there are plenty of reasons not to bring small children to church, but one important reason to do it anyway.

 This kid isn't actually praying. He just fell asleep and his parents pushed his hands together.

A trip to church is never without incident (read; grumbled, frustrated curses until we enter the parking lot of holiness). In fact, of all the places you can bring your children, it's easily one of the most stressful. Planning to get out the door, for instance, must begin no later than 45 minutes before the smart time of mass. Any later than that, and you're sheepishly opening the back door, hoping the priest was proactive enough to spray some WB-40 on the hinges. So, naturally, that's what happens to us every single Sunday.

We make sure both kids have sufficient fluids and snacks (as if mass is taking place in the Sahara Desert) and pack noiseless toys into a backpack and run to the car. After we've done our worst to sneak in without anyone noticing we're late, we take our seats in the back room - otherwise known as "the cry room." There's even a sign on the door going into the room that states, "This room is reserved for parishioners with small children." But apparently, the text is too small for the half-asleep college students with sweat pants and Crocs to read.  Thanks, jerks.

At this point, the priest is already halfway through his homily, which I always guiltily believe is somehow related to the sins of tardiness (if such a thing is technically sinful). Thankfully, we're far enough away from the altar where the priest can't make judgmental eye contact with us.

No sooner do we sit down when Antonio is somehow starving and proceeds to eat everything in sight. It's borderline embarrassing, since not even the babies in the room are indulging in food and drink. But he still sits there, chomping on a granola bar, not giving a shit. Sonia tries to get Antonio interested by giving him a kid bible, but the whole, "a man was nailed to a cross and rose from the dead to save the rest of us jerks" is a bit of a dark story for a three-year-old who still pees himself occasionally. He winds up using it as a coloring book, anyway.

If it needs to be said, sitting in the cry room at church and trying to actually listen is like sitting in the front row at Sea World, trying to peacefully read a book. Translation: You feel like a badass actually trying to pull it off. But then an idiot when you fail.

All in all, there are Sundays when I feel like I'm completely wasting my time. But teaching my kids the skill of shutting the fuck up for a full hour can't possibly be a bad thing.

In closing, I'll say that I do feel kind of bad cursing in a post about church. But as long as I'm not on the holy Wi-Fi network, I figure I have carte blanche. 

Till next time, thanks for reading.

-Joe DeProspero
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