Things have started to open up in some places and a few weeks ago, we made our first trip in months to Mass on a Sunday morning. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we actually went to the Illinois side of the Mississippi to attend Mass because the Iowa side hadn’t opened yet. (Don’t get me started- you’ll be exposed to a rant that you will not be able to unsee or unhear and it’s just not worth the spike in my blood pressure.) It was beyond refreshing. I had almost forgotten how much I love attending Mass and what a necessity it is to maintain composure and kindness and sanity in this life of whatever you call what this life is full of on a regular basis. The smell, which is just a lingering scent of Frankincense, probably burned during the Christmas season at some point; the quiet atmosphere which brings a calmness to my head and my heart that no other place can, the candles, the statues, the altar. All of it. It was healing. I breathed deeper and fuller than I had in months.
I couldn’t help but notice in the front pew to my left was a family with two active littles. The boy was probably 4 and the girl was maybe 2. They were making noise with toys and their voices. My 17 year old was sitting next to me, quiet and reserved, staring up at the altar, deep in thought and I was thinking how different my life is at 47 than it was when my 17 year old was 3 or 4 or 5 and I was, well, much, much younger. I wanted to get up and walk over to that mom, who was keeping her composure far better than I ever did, point at my son and tell her, “honey, this is going to be so easy some day, I promise. Just plow through and do the best you can to keep your kids in the pew and you will be rewarded. We’re all pullin’ for ya.”
Honestly, I remember those days so well. It was a struggle. We knew if we fought the good fight, these boys of ours would succumb to our routine of going to Mass every Sunday, we JUST! HAD! TO! PERSEVERE! But that was not easy for several years and it tried our patience, for sure. We would try holding them and walking to different parts of the sanctuary, thinking that location would intrigue them and stop them from squirming. We tried taking them to the cry room in the back, but all the other parents in there had given up and their kids were running around the pews, smacking each other over the head with rosary beads and having food fights with Cheerios and Pepperidge Farm Goldfish snacks, so we quickly exited stage left and headed back to the pew, deciding that our only option was to sit on the kids until they were 12. Eventually, though, they learned to have self-control for an hour each week and Mass became refreshing again.
But there was that one Sunday, and confession…it’s the only Sunday since I became Catholic that I left right after Communion…
I think the boys were maybe 6 and 3. John was, by then, really used to Mass because not only did he attend all Sunday Masses and Holy Days with us, he went to a Catholic school and attended Mass frequently there as well. Sam was three. He was just three. And that’s all I have to say about that.
That Sunday, I was charged with getting the boys to Mass by myself because I was taking them somewhere for the day and Scott was working and had to attend Mass at a different time. The boys and I loaded up into the family mini-van and headed to Corpus Christi in Galesburg. Corpus is beautiful. It’s cathedral-like– high, royal blue ceilings, ornate gold trim, stunning altar. And the aisles… The aisles are about 6 miles long. Knowing that I would be having to man-handle Sam, and shush him when he would inevitably ask loudly why someone was so fat or “why are they walking like that, Mama?”, I sat wayyyyyyy in the back of the church in the corner.
When it was time to head up to the altar to take communion, Corpus always starts at the back, so the people sitting the furthest away begin the six mile trek in front of the entire congregation. I had been strategically sitting between the boys during the Mass, for obvious reasons, and as we stood up to get out of our tiny, three-person, corner pew, John was first to get out. (If you need clarification on “obvious reasons”, I mean that separation is key when you have more than one boy. They are a driving, unified force and their sole mission is to destroy all adults in the household. If you don’t get that shiz under control and exert your power from day one, you have not only lost the battle, friends, you’ve lost your dignity and self-respect and they know it. They know it and they and use it against you until they’re searching for and have found your long-term care facility).
John got out of the pew first and I followed, holding Sam’s chubby, three-year-old hand, guiding him out of the pew. But Sam is competitive in nature. At a very early age, as soon as he was able to recognize that John was his brother, Sam was determined to beat John at everything he could think of. He watched John’s every move and learned very quickly how to master every task that John could do- walking, getting dressed, feeding himself, getting his shoes on, climbing things. For the love of all things holy, that kid climbed everything. And he would always take it a step further than John. If John climbed to a branch 10 feet off the ground, Sam would climb 12 feet. This is not an exaggeration. To make matters worse, and much to our dismay and horror at times, Sam would Peter Pan himself right off of whatever he had climbed! (He once climbed a fence, grabbed a tree limb and attempted to swing himself across the yard. Great plan, genius, but unlike the trees in Indiana Jones movies, our branches are, shall we say, more likely to snap under the weight of a human child, thus dropping the child to Earth, on his back, with a loud thud. It was then that I had to have a conversation with my mom about reminding Sam “don’t try this at home” when they have movie night together.) Sam wanted to be faster at everything when it came to John and this particular Sunday was no exception.
As soon as Sam exited the pew and saw that John had already begun the journey down the aisle ahead of him, Sam began to walk faster. John, hearing that Sam was gaining on him, began to speed walk to stay ahead. Sam (and I can still picture this and it seems funny now, but I can tell you, I was legit scared for my reputation at this point) bent his arms so that his little elbows stuck out, hunched over slightly in determination and sped up his walk. Looking back, it was hilarious, but that day, he looked pretty scary from behind and I fully understand now why John picked up the pace to a steady jog.
Seriously. These aisles are so freaking long.
Sam sped up to a full-on sprint and it. was. on.
By the time I reached the front of church, two things were happening.
First, everyone sitting within eyesight of this scene was laughing. Well, everyone except for the mom, who was bringing up the rear of this shit-show. She was not laughing.
Second, and this was the worst part, at the base of the altar, literally at the foot of the priest, were my two boys. On the floor. Wrestling.
I’m laughing so hard right now, while I try to type this. But I can tell you that I was not laughing at that moment. And maybe I should’ve. Looking back now, I think… who cares? They were just being boys and they didn’t understand the reverence of where they were. This is how grandparents become the way they are and why kids love their grandparents more than their parents. Grandparents just get it. They look back at their lives with their children and realize things were pretty good and maybe they got upset over things that didn’t deserve getting upset over and they take on this new, chill approach to taking care of little ones. Oh, you broke something? I don’t mind that it’s a thousand years old! Have a cookie! Oh, you got in our car and put it in neutral and rolled it down the driveway? That’s great! We were going to clean out the garage anyway! Thanks for being a big helper!
But that day. Oh, that day. When I finally made it up to the altar, I grabbed each one by an arm and wedged myself between them. I hastily took communion from a smiling and patient priest and then walked past all the laughing on-lookers with a boy on each side. When we reached our pew, they attempted to slide into it, but I held tight and headed for the enormous wooden doors only feet away. I pushed the door open with my body, since I still had a boy in each hand, and in a voice I have only heard from myself a few times as a mother (it resembles more of a growl than a voice), I said, “get. in. the. van.” They took off down the steps, and ran out to the van, exactly like told them, except that they were giggling the entire time and of course, racing each other.
When I got into the van, I prepared to unleash the wrath of hell on those two and then I looked into the rear view mirror. Both boys were looking at me, with the sweetest and most angelic faces I had ever seen. John innocently asked, “what’s wrong, Mama?” How could I yell at them? They’re boys. They’re physical. They do boy stuff. They wrestle. ALL THE TIME THEY WRESTLE. I calmed down and told them we don’t run and wrestle in church. They looked at each other and giggled some more. Out of exhaustion and exasperation, my head fell forward and hit the steering wheel, which only encouraged them to laugh harder.
Sam is still competitive and pokes the bear as often as he can. They peaked when John was a senior. I have a dent the size of Sam’s head in my hallway wall to prove it. There is less wrestling now, more “shut up idiot” or “don’t be a moron.”
Sometimes I really miss those days and those sweet little innocent faces that didn’t have to deal with all the world’s yuck. The most challenging thing in their tiny lives at that time was how to manipulate mom into letting them stay up a little bit longer or eat a little more sugar. And I wish that mom and all moms of littles the best in church. After months of church on tv at home, the struggle will undoubtedly be real when they return to the actual, physical pew. Fight the good fight, girls. And keep yourself between them at all times.
