Most wives give their husbands gifts on their birthdays. I gave Ken an assignment :)
Thanks Ken and Happy Birthday! We love you!
My dear spouse has asked that I fill in for a night to share with you, her loyal readers, the experience of hauling three children to church. Why she would choose my birthday to share with you the exhausting marathon of child management during what used to be a rather simple event that not only an lasted hour, but also only SEEMED like an hour, I guess I’ll have to leave that to her.
I suppose the story begins, as with all stories, at the beginning. But in this story, the beginning has a prologue.
ACT 1: Did we remember all the kids?
Preparing for church takes almost as much time as Mass itself. It usually begins with an announcement that it is time to get ready for church, followed by a two year old and a four year old running in separate directions (never underestimate their ability to war plan) while a once-quiet newborn, evidently having too much CO2 in his lungs, decides to unload it to the world, carried along by a frequency known to fracture skulls.
At this moment is when I again realize what idiots we are, as for some reason we have had amnesia and forgot that this is what happened last week, and forgot how late we were. So we next find ourselves chasing two kids around the house, upstairs and down, with two mismatched socks (we’ve discovered over time that only brand new socks come in matching pairs; all other socks are a mixture of his and hers, theirs and mine, and occasionally one or two from the neighbor kids). Now, capturing the little varmints might seem like a simple task, just as catching a greased pig also seemed like a simple task before some yokel in Kentucky actually tried it for the first time. However, they are wily creatures, kids, and I have witnessed them confound the smartest and nimblest parents with their quick-change directions and total lack of disregard for theirs or their parents’ safety. Besides, catching them is only half the battle: KEEPING them is the hard part.
You see, a two year old and four year old are experts at diversion. Especially as they have no shame. Bodily functions, random acts of violence upon each other, high-pitched siren screams, toy throwing … and worst of all, being cute (there is no defense; no matter how determined one is to slap on a diaper, or brush hair, a cute song or the A-B-C’s or an adorably mispronounced word, and your whole rhythm is shot).
Now, bear in mind, on top of this there weighs the tiny but oh-so-significant presence of nearly 14 pounds of unapologetic need, also known as Baby #3. You can discipline (or at least feel like you tried) at two years and four years – but there is just no reasoning with a baby. I have learned this the hard way after trying desperately to convince my newborn at 2:00 a.m. of the value of sleep and how much he would benefit if he would only let me have some.
ACT 2: We’re going to be late!
Act 1 is really only an introduction to the chaos and head-splitting frustration to come (and in the spirit of brevity and out of compassion for those with weak constitutions, I have spared you the grueling heartbreak of packing a “church” bag full of toys to occupy your kids, only to arrive at church and realize that your spouse [or maybe me, but I’ll never admit it] forgot to bring it).
You see, there is a deadline to meet, one punctuated by church bells signaling the beginning of Mass – though any more I can only guess that Mass starts after the bells ring, as I have only heard those bells while traveling in the car on the way to church (on a possibly related note, it is also now my belief that the Catholic Church must have eliminated the Old Testament reading because I haven’t heard one in two years).
So typically, it goes like this: shout that we’re going to be late, gather the kids, put them in their car seats, fight for three minutes to buckle the one with the funny buckle (were some of these designed by the Nazis? I swear we have the Evenflo “Eichman” model), run back in the house to get the blankie we forgot, run back to the car, run back into the house again to get the tithe (to the sound of church bells, I might add), start the car and pull out of the driveway. Phew!
Once at the church parking lot, the process reverses.
“Can I have my puzzle book, daddy?”
“We didn’t bring it, sweetie.”
“But I NEEEED it.”
“I know, but mommy forgot the church bag.”
[from the other side of the van] “What!”
“Nothing, I didn’t say anything.”
After extricating our tots from the minivan and pocketing as much pedagogical and poop-related paraphernalia as possible, we repeat stern warnings about holding hands in the parking lot, about watching for cars, and – “WAIT! Did you get the baby!?!?! Oh, good” – more importantly, we begin in earnest to beg our brood for good behavior before going into church. Bribes, blackmail - nothing is off limits. They respond to our pleas in one of two ways: with looks of astonishment (“What? Moi? Cause a disturbance in the middle of this most holy of ceremonies?”) or, more often, with looks of distraction (“Pipe down old man, I’m plotting over here ….”).
Finally, we enter the church (I call it entering, but laden with two kids, a baby in a car seat, a diaper bag the size of a dumpster, and usually at least one or two other items we inexplicably grabbed in the chaos [“Honey, I don’t think we’ll be needing jumper cables?”], it more resembles a small medieval army crashing through a fortified draw bridge with a battering ram).
ACT 3: We’re so, so sorry.
Those of you with multiple kids will understand this next part: the walk of fear. Bear in mind, we’re now the only ones standing having missed the beginning of Mass. All eyes are glued on us, and row after row of parishioners glance furtively, and with dreadful anticipation, at us and our runny-nosed, coughing, drooling, flatulent cargo.
Eventually we pick some suckers – ahem, people – to sit by. They move down. We move down. They move further. We sigh.
Now, because churches can’t afford off-site mobile homes with satellite uplinks of the Mass, they usually provide “crying rooms” where families with cranky children (or parents made cranky BY their children) can sit so as only to annoy the crap out of those who actually deserve it: other nincompoops with kids.
We generally choose against this option. Our kids are difficult enough; we have no desire to form a “misery club” with others. More importantly, the crying area is too close to the exits and we know better than to provide ourselves that much temptation. It’s part of the Lord’s Prayer, right? Couldn’t tell you right now, I don’t think I’ve heard it in its entirety since #2 was born.
Having found a seat, we enjoy about 2 minutes of relative quiet. It is the last the time we will experience it for the remainder of Mass. By the time the Gospel rolls around, I will have gotten up three times to chase my two year old boy. I truly believe that, despite my best efforts, he will someday make it all the way to the sanctuary and I will find myself playing ring around the altar (genuflecting each time I pass the tabernacle, of course) in a vain attempt to get one finger under the strap of his overalls.
Also, with three kids you should know that the noise and misbehavior is not a constant, with each kid in a perpetual state of caterwauling. Frankly, it would almost be better if it came all at once. But no, instead it comes at you like the wave during a sporting event, like dominos of discord falling one kid after the other, allowing for brief microseconds of false hope only to be followed by the OTHER kid crawling under the pews, crying, or pooping (sometimes all at once).
And the presence of the baby complicates all of this because it takes one parent out of commission completely if he needs to be fed, or held. I am utterly convinced that my older kids speak baby, and he is now in cahoots with them, timing his hunger and bowel movements to coincide with the moment the other parent is at his or her most vulnerable. It is indeed a fiendish consortium they have. And we are helpless to try and match wits. We can only pray for mercy.
ACT 4: My Act of Contrition
Despite the ear piercing noise, the wiggling, the poking, the chasing, the changing, the stinking, the scolding, and the inability to catch anything that actually happens during the Mass, there are also some bright spots. Like when the people in the pew behind us smile at the baby and he smiles back, or when the 2 year old says “peace be wiff you” and everyone laughs, or when the four year old finishes a puzzle faster than I can do it, much to the awe of people around us.
So while my post certainly accurately portrays the (barely) controlled chaos of a trip to church with three kids four and under, I am compelled to offer that it is not without its joys. In the end, while I usually miss the Gospel reading, I nonetheless feel completely connected with God; and though my mind isn’t always focused as it should be on prayer, I know that offering God the freedom to create life is also a prayer of its own; and finally, I have to remind myself that I have prayed often for God to teach me patience, and he has responded in spades. And I can’t think of a better way to learn it.
The medic who splinted him said he wouldn't be able to swim or get his cast wet for 4-6 weeks. I was totally devastated about that. He LOVES the water, the water table, the sprinkler, etc. This would throw a wrench into our summer. I have now heard that they do have waterproof casts, so I'm going to BEG the doctor tomorrow for one of those. Poor guy didn't get a nap today so he fell asleep in the car....
He was seriously so good in the ER. He talked to the doctors, the technicians, the medics, the receptionist, the nurses. They all commented on how cute he was and how well he talked. He followed directions, never once cried, and was fantastic the whole time. I was so proud of him. 
He's showing his "boo boo." I wonder how long it'll take him to hit his sister with that thing?
Please pray we get a waterproof cast tomorrow! And pray he won't be in too much pain and it'll heal perfectly. Poor baby.
