Cry Rooms, Nurseries, and a Change of Heart

In the beginning, I was anti-Cry Room. 

Now I should start by admitting that I had no actual Cry Room experience.  In my first almost-decade as a Catholic we'd never belonged to a parish that had a cry room.  I'd sat in confessionals and bride's rooms and in a little room outside of a bathroom.  I'd lingered in vestibules and stood outside in heat and bitter cold and all sorts of temperatures in between.

Sometimes people have asked what Paul was doing during these Masses. Much of the time he would have Maggie and I would have the boys since they cried less when they were with me.  Although over the years we've done different variations of our divide and conquer strategy.

But I'd heard the stories.  Unfortunately, when Cry Rooms exist, some people in some places seem to think that all kids belong in them.  And there can be a lot of pressure on parents to take their children to these rooms, when a child makes even the smallest of peeps.  Which of course, isn't right at all. 

For the last four years, before we made our move, I had spent all but maybe four Masses outside in the vestibule of our old parish, behind big glass doors.  The kids couldn't see very well what was going on inside, which made the seventy to ninety minute Masses feel even longer.

And we had many days that were very, very hard (have you ever been kicked hard in the nose during Mass and known that it was broken again?  I have...) and very, very discouraging and there was a year somewhere in the middle of all this when I really didn't want to go to Mass at all.  When James was a tiny baby, thinking about Sunday made me want to cry. 

I dreaded it, knowing that Patch would be crying and James would be crying and I'd have to fend off other little kids offering Maggie snacks that she was allergic to.     

For the last year I would send Sadie in to sit by herself in the front.  Maggie would start to make loud happy sounds when we went inside, and Patch and James were both at difficult stages as well and someone was always in need of correction.  Wrangling them was a two parent job. 

It wasn't ideal, but it also wasn't as bad as it had been.

But now we are at a parish with a Cry Room.

In my head, when I think those words, I imagine a little melody like choirs of angels singing. 

No one pressured us to use it.  In fact, there was a bit of pressure not to use it.  At our first Mass, Paul asked the lady who opened the door for us if there was a Cry Room.  She said there was, but that we needn't go there.  There was a little chapel off to the side with a glass wall, she explained, please only use the Cry Room if we really needed to. 

Of course, she couldn't have known that we basically always need it. 

We tried the chapel for a solid month.  After a particularly trying day I told Paul that that was it.  We were trying the Cry Room out.

It was nothing like I'd imagined.  The room is off to one side of the altar.  There's a large glass window with a kneeler.  When Sadie, or any of the kids, kneel there they get an up close view of what's going on during Mass.  And even from the neat rows of seats the view isn't bad at all. 

Mass is still chaotic for us.  For anyone reading who doesn't know our family, we have an eight year old (the only person I don't worry about during Mass), a six year old with autism, a not-quite-four year old, an almost-two year old, and a three month old.  That means that there are four kids who might act up/scream their lungs out at any given minute. 

I find myself helping one child or another to behave themselves roughly every sixty seconds during Mass.  Some days it is literally non-stop for the entire Mass.

But for the first time in four years, I'm actually able to be mentally present for a good portion of the Mass.

And more than that, so are the kids.  We can hear and see what's going.  And that's huge. 

Since we've started going to the Cry Room, Maggie's conversations with me have shifted.  Before this change, 98% of our conversations revolved around mermaids.  Now about half the conversation topics she brings up are about Jesus.  She wants to sing about him.  She wants me to help her make the Sign of the Cross.  She says "Father, Son?" and then struggles to copy me when I say "Holy Spirit." 

And more than that, she asks about Mass every single night. 

Even Patch is beginning to behave for a far greater portion of the time than he did before.  At the last Mass he knelt next to Sadie, and this time it wasn't just to try to annoy her. 

Last week the nursery opened it's doors for the year, in the room right next to the Cry Room.  And we dropped the boys off and went through the door to the Cry Room for Mass. 

Now the Cammie of seven years ago would likely be horrified by this.  The Cammie of seven years ago would tell me that children belong in Mass.  And they do.  They really do. 

But the me-of-today also understands that sometimes there are extenuating circumstances.  The me-of-today gets that different things are best for different families, and the me-of-today actually believes it when I say it. 

James has been at a stage where, even in the Cry Room, he would cry through a huge portion of Mass. 

Was he getting anything from that, other than an aversion to going anywhere near the parish? Was it helping the other kids to experience Mass with a younger sibling screaming the entire time and two stressed out parents who were at wit's end after trying everything they could to calm him down?

And most of all, could I give Maggie the intensive attention that she needs during Mass to help her grow and learn and feed this blossoming interest and love of God, while dealing with an irate one year old who's throwing himself on the ground and trying to remove a heating vent from the wall? 

Quite simply, for us, the answer was no.

And so we find ourselves turning both to the Cry Room and the nursery, grateful that we have these options right now, when we so desperately need them.

These years have certainly been humbling. 

And so it is that I've come to appreciate the Cry Room immensely.  And the nursery.  And I look forward to going to Mass again, instead of feeling incredible stress in the days that lead up to Sunday, thinking about all the ways that things can go wrong. 

The focus has been shifted back towards the reason we come together for the celebration of the Mass, even if things are still rather hectic and don't look exactly the way I imagined them, back in the days when I knew so much more about being a parent than I know now.

On Disabilities, Educational Decisions, and My Crisis of Faith

I've written and rewritten this post, both typing out the words and forming them in my mind over and over again and then pushing them away, resolving not to share them with the world, and then feeling them bubble up again as I wonder how many others have felt this way, and if my writing might help someone else out there feel a little less alone.  And then I wonder if I can tie the ends together of the many subjects that lead together to my ultimate point, and if anyone else would even see the point buried under all the moments that led up to it. 

So maybe I should begin with a question? 

Can we really expect our children to be for life, that is to support life in all it's stages and forms, when all they ever see is people who are exactly like they are? 

I've written those words down as a special needs mom, because that's one of the things that I am, but in this current moment as the world swings round, through events that are crushing and sorrowful, I realize that it can be read in more than one way. 

I'll write from my own experience though, and let whoever ends up reading this whole thing take from it what they will, mostly because right now in this moment, I'm too exhausted to do much more than untangle the threads before me and see where they lead. 

Or maybe I should have begun with a statement? 

I realize that these past months have led me through a crisis of faith of sorts, although not the kind I ever expected, because it wasn't a crisis of believing that Christ died for our sins, or of believing that the Eucharist is the body and blood of Christ, or of believing that our Pope is the successor of Saint Peter, or of anything of that sort. 

It was a crisis that came from the realization that there seemed to be absolutely no place for my family within the everyday life of the Church as people come together and form communities to worship God.    

And if I'm honest, if I hadn't clung with every ounce of strength to that belief in the True Presence, I have no idea where I would have ended up. 

This is how I've arrived at this place... and how I've been slowly moving past it.

This past year has been a crush of appointments. 

Every time I think I've gotten one thing worked out, that I'm sure that at this appointment the specialist will say that maybe we just need to go to yearly appointments, the opposite happens and suddenly he needs to see us in four weeks (which, thank goodness, is really more like six or eight since he'll be booked solid that far out) and oh, I need to refer you over the see (insert name of another specialist) and I'm going to advise that we order this particular test (that of course requires sedation, which is always kind of traumatic) because we've been taking things very slowly and monitoring the delay, but after a year I think we need to do some more in depth testing to eliminate physical causes for what's going on. 

We generally have somewhere around 50 appointments a month.  I stopped counting a while ago.  Most of them are therapy appointments.  A lot are doctors appointments.  I think we had around 90 doctors appointments this last year.  Give or take a dozen.

There are the ABA appointments (which Maggie begs to go to even on weekends, and where she tells her therapists that she loves them), and speech appointments and OT appointments. 

There are James' PT appointments and his bi-monthly appointments where an early interventionist comes out the house and works with him on speech and fine motor skills and gross motor skills and asks if he's been pointing at all, and has he lined up cars again? and where Patch laments the grave injustice that he only has speech during the school year, which he probably doesn't even need anymore, and that no one brings out a giant bag of toys for him to play with every two weeks.  Oh and had I gone in to get James fitted for orthotics yet?

There are allergist appointments where the doctor orders more blood tests too further investigate how allergic Sadie is to certain things, and looks at her results and then looks shocked when I say they haven't given me an epi pen for her yet, and there are the various other appointments with our developmental pediatrician who has been keeping a close eye on things because she senses there is a theme of some sort in the delays that she sees and she, like the geneticist and neurologist, is waiting to see where the test results that our insurance finally approved (chromosomal and DNA testing) lead. 

And of course there were the OB appointments and the hospitalization for the flu and then for the hospitalization for the kidney infection and all the other scares that this last pregnancy, which I consider my only really hard pregnancy, entailed. 

In a way this year has knocked me off my feet.  I find myself thinking "just keep swimming, just keep swimming" because if I stopped I knew the exhaustion would catch up to me. 

Which is why when Sadie asked me if she could go to school at our parish school I stopped and really, really thought about it. 

Because while I'd made a point to get her involved in as many activities as I could squeeze in, from ballet, to Little Flowers, to a couple playgroups, and I'd just bought a brand new boxed curriculum because I wasn't quite up for piecing my own together anymore, I also knew that I was getting to the point where I was stretched so thin that she needed more. 

So Paul and I talked.  And prayed.  And talked some more. 

And I told her that yes, I would set up an appointment and we would go and take a tour of the school. 

She had made her first communion the week before, and she had made friends, both through Little Flowers and at the retreat.  She was thrilled to walk around the school with an administrator. 

And as we walked I mentioned that she did have ADHD, but she that she works really hard to focus.  It mostly was seen in the way she flaps her hands when she gets really excited.  And that she was going to be tested to see if she was on the Aspie end of the spectrum, because her pediatrician had a hunch that she might be on it, but that that mostly was seen in her passionate interest in various subjects, like how she walked around reciting the names of the planets when she was three, or how she can recite word for word answers to questions about our faith from the catechism. 

The conversation turned quickly to his own experience with people on the spectrum being violent.  I assured him that she isn't violent.  She's never been violent.  Not at all.  He nodded and continued to tell me about the school but at the end of the tour he told me that they would need to see her test results before they would even consider admitting her. 

Fine, I thought, still rather disturbed at the conversation that seemed to indicate that he thought all people on the spectrum were violent.  Then I received an email saying that she was welcome to come and try being a student for a day at the school.

She was over the moon. 

I coached her on standing in line and raising her hand to ask or answer a question.  And I walked her into the cafeteria, where three little girls squealed her name and ran over to hug her and my heart just about burst. 

She had friends there.  The parish is orthodox and I knew she'd receive an amazing education there.  It was really all I could ask for. 

And so she went to school and came home and told me about how much fun she had and I received an email from the special ed teacher about how well it had gone and asking me to come in for a meeting on the following Wednesday. 

I relaxed.  They'd seen how well she would do.  I'd go in and sign the papers and we'd be set. 

As you may have guessed, that wasn't how things went. 

I went into the meeting and heard that at the first communion retreat she'd had an "incident."  The "incident," was that there was a game being played where kids were chosen and she hadn't been chosen.  So she'd started to cry. 

That was it.  No yelling.  No screaming.  No tantrum of violence.  Just tears. 

But it didn't really matter.  I suddenly had the distinct impression that the "student for a day" day had been granted so that he could look for an excuse.  A few times, I was told, she was confused about what she was supposed to be doing in class and looked around the room instead of watching the teacher.

Was this real? 

Then the administrator began to explain to me "what autism is."  It doesn't matter how smart they are, he said, kids with this disorder.  And as he spoke I began to realize that my explanations and the ample education I've received in the last three years since Mae's diagnosis wasn't going to get me anywhere when speaking to this man.  The stigma and his own misconceptions were far too entrenched. 

The classes I'd taken, the trainings I've received, the books and studies I've poured over, the thousands of hours of therapy sessions I've sat in on, weren't going to change his mind. 

Similarly when Paul, who has ADHD, spoke with him he received a lecture about "what ADHD is."

Why wouldn't I drug her?  We'd tried ADHD meds, I explained.  They were a nightmare.  They made her incredibly anxious and depressed.  She could focus far better on them, could sit perfectly still for hours at a time solving math problems for fun, but she was miserable and sad and not the little girl I knew. 

So it wasn't an option?

"I'm not going to allow her into this school," he said, "unless I am one hundred percent certain that she will succeed."  I stared at him.  How can you ever be one hundred percent certain that any child will succeed?  But I couldn't get out the words.  I was completely blindsided.  It was absurd. 

"We would love for you to be a (insert name of parish) family... but..." 

I thanked him for his time and hoped that the papers from the test results could convince him that she would do fine in school.

I called a social worker who told me that I would probably have trouble with the parochial schools but who put together every evaluation they had including an extensive report by a psychologist that said that she was extremely good at math but had poor gross motor skills and could benefit from OT (which she'd been discharged from because she made such great improvements) and speech (which she'd been attending and which the school offered). 

The social worker highlighted the suggestions, making it clear that she shouldn't need any special exceptions at the school.  Everyone from her developmental pediatrician to the psychologist thought she would do well. 

I brought the stack of papers straight over and handed them in and waited for a call. 

And I thought.  And thought.  The statement about only allowing in kids that they were 100% certain would succeed went through my head over and over again. 

And the doubt crept in. 

Did I want her going to a school where an administrator had such a skewed view of kids with disabilities?  Where he was only willing to take on those that he saw as a sure thing?  100 percent?

I thought of my own education at a Lasallian college and the motto, "Enter to learn, leave to serve."  I thought of the kids I'd gone to school with who had gone into the teaching program and gone out to teach in inner city schools.  Were they only taking on kids that were a "sure thing?"  Somehow I doubted it. 

I thought of my own father who was a superintendent for decades, and who also taught educational leadership at the same Catholic college I attended.  I thought about how he'd often said that anyone could catch a kid making a mistake.  The truly great educators caught them doing something right. 

And I couldn't help but feel that if she went to this school everyone would be waiting for her to make a mistake.  She'd already been criticized for crying when she didn't get picked during a game.  It had now been brought up three times by two different people as Paul began to have conversations to try to clarify that she was entirely capable of attending the school.  Could I really expect that she would have a fair chance?

Every day she asked me if they'd said she could go to school yet, and every day the pressure grew.  Why weren't they saying yes, she asked, what could she do to help?

My heart was breaking.  At nine months pregnant I cried many, many tears.  And the words "we really wish you could be a ______ family" went through my mind over and over again until I felt sick. 

As a special needs mom I've felt how hard it is to find any place for my family within the Church.  There are young family events at our parish, but they always involve, and in fact revolve around, food (and Maggie just doesn't understand yet why she can't have the same thing that everyone else is having).

We used to try to go to things, but inevitably she would somehow get her hands on a doughnut and be sick for two weeks and if I have to pick between not almost going to the hospital and going to a parish social event I have to pick not being sent my our pediatrician to the pediatric emergency room for gastro problems. 

Mass is hard.  Sometimes it's impossible.  Sometimes I leave halfway through in tears. 

I hadn't sat down during Mass in years, living perpetually in the vestibule, but that didn't stop the people who were really disgusted by those with disabilities (or small children who don't sit perfectly still) from shaking their heads or glaring when we'd come forward for communion (although I should note that most people are not like that... it's just those who are stand out in a very special way...). 

And in the moment when all these thoughts broke upon me I felt done.  I was angry. I felt like I'd tried to find a place for my family and that that place just didn't exist.  And someone had finally said it out loud. 

And it made me think hard about how we welcome those who are different from us into the Church.  Do we welcome them?  Or do we glare, or ignore them?

If our children only ever see people who are exactly like them how can we expect them to be unafraid of those who are different?  If we've banned all children with disabilities from our parish schools, and made it nearly impossible for their families to be part of parish life, can we really expect those same children, or their families to warmly welcome a child with disabilities into their hearts if that is the path that their life takes them down? 

Being around the differently abled can teach us how wonderful the different gifts we're given can be.  Banning those who are different from sight only increases the fear of what we don't know. 

We can preach about being open to life and accepting children who aren't what the world sees as perfect as a gift, but do we welcome them into our parishes on a practical level once they're in this world?  Or do we need to be 100% certain that they'll be successful as the world measures success? 

On day after picking up Maggie I felt inspired and drove over, across town, to another parish and pulled into the parking lot.  I drove slow past the playground and pointed it out to her.  "Look at this school!" I said enthusiastically.  "Look at how big it is.  And look at the church.  It's beautiful!  Oh and the playground is huge!" 

On Sunday we went back to that parish.  We asked if they had a cry room and were told that they did, but they would love for our children to be there in the main room with everyone, and if they had a hard time with that there was a beautiful glass walled chapel off to the side where we could still see everyone.  If that didn't work there was a cry room available.

For the next month we spent Mass in that side room, sitting together as a family for the first time in years.  Two weeks ago Tessie was baptized there.  Sadie's test came back totally normal and we applied and she was accepted into the new school. 

She's got her uniform and her book bag and she's practiced reading just about every night.  She's gone to drama camp and vacation bible school and zoo camp to help "practice" a bit for school.  And she hasn't asked me in weeks why the other school wouldn't let her go there with her friends.  She's been won over by the impressive playground and went on a tour of the school and met the new priest that's just arrived and the principal. 

This last Sunday Maggie was having a harder time than she has since we'd made the change.  She kept making little squeal sounds, and giggling.  The room was almost empty, but an elderly woman sat on the other side of the room, and I saw her glance over at us.  I was nervous and self conscious as I held Maggie and hushed her and tried to keep her from disturbing anyone. 

At the sign of peace the woman walked over to me from the other side of the room.  I smiled nervously, the baby on my chest, holding tightly to Maggie, as she smiled and told me that she loved hearing my daughter's beautiful voice and that she should really be the children's choir and that both girls were simply beautiful.

As she walked away I almost started to cry.  It was the first time someone had said something kind about the struggles that we've had at Mass, in a very, very long time, outside of when we've visited the parish where we were married and the girls were baptized in California. 

I hadn't thought I'd needed those words, that sort of acceptance, but as I struggle to hold back tears even at the memory I realize that it was a sort of gift she gave me,  that I desperately needed after this past year, and especially after the last few months of feeling very much like we didn't belong. 

I'm not sure how to end this.  This next year we will have on child in parochial school, one in public school (I think), and one who's homeschooled, plus a baby and a toddler.  I guess all that is enough for another post. 

I'm looking forward to the changes that I didn't think I'd ever want and a short while ago didn't expect.  All of this should make the cascade of appointments more manageable. 

And we'll move forward to see what the next year has in store for us, hopeful that these changes are the right ones and excited to see how life will change with this new change of plans.

And I'll be praying that we can all accept those who we feel are so very different than we are, and that we can welcome them into our lives and realize that perhaps the differences aren't as great as we imagined, remembering that Christ died for their sins as well as our own and that he must see the division in this world with great sadness.

On the Banning of Diaper Bags and Strollers and Why It Could Make Mass Impossible for Some Families

Yesterday there were a flurry of posts on social media about a Catholic Church in Charlotte, that happens to be one of the largest Catholic Churches in the country, and the steps that they are taking to increase security.  

An article in the Charlotte Observer states:

The safety measures will include uniformed and plain-clothes police officers at all weekend Masses along with hired security guards, Monsignor John J. McSweeney told parishioners in a memo emailed Friday. 

The Charlotte church is also banning a list of 15 items in all worship halls. They include: large bags, backpacks, diaper bags, laptops, computer cases, luggage, video equipment, laser pointers, baby strollers, and anything that can conceal items or that clergy and staff determine poses a security hazard. 

The church has already added cameras throughout its sprawling campus. The new measures, McSweeney said, were approved by the church’s safety awareness team.He told the Observer that the measures aren’t a reaction, but “a proactive piece of planning we have for security." 

To continue reading click here.

I have to admit that my first thoughts as I finished reading the article was to imagine what wold happen if these safety features were being implemented at our parish.  Or worse yet, what if they caught on and became standard at parishes across the country?

Mass would be completely impossible for us.  We would no longer be able to go.

Life without a diaper bag wouldn't be the deal breaker for me.  I think I could probably stuff the epi pens and allergy meds into a bag small enough to take inside.  The inhaler that we carry is small, but the spacer and little kid's mask isn't, adding another challenge to the packing of a small bag.

And maybe even a diaper or two could fit into that bag, although I think back to the long months when we had a refluxy baby, who we'd change immediately before Mass and then likely have to change (we're talking entire outfits) another two times before Mass was over because no matter what we did her stomach was miserable and her outfits, and our outfits, were likely to be ruined, forever and ever, on any given day.

We haven't had a baby like that in a long time though.  These days the deal breaker would be the umbrella stroller that comes in with us to Mass each week.

I'll start by explaining why the stroller has become so necessary because over the last couple years it has become clear to me that it is something that bothers some people and that if there's any hope that they understand why it's necessary for us, it needs to be explained.

There have been looks.  Frowns.  Shaken heads.  People do not understand why a child so large isn't sitting quietly in a pew.  Why does she need a stroller?  One couple earlier this fall looked as though they really, really wanted to say something as they turned fully in their seats and shook their head through the glass door at me for the entirety of Mass, mouths turned down in frowns despite the fact that she was completely silent.

At the time I came up with the response in my head of "Why don't you step over here with me and tell Father what your complaint is?" as I readied myself for the words that looked as though they might bubble over at any moment.  It didn't come, likely because I had to take a certain two year old out at the very end of Mass and wasn't there to enjoy whatever it was they seemed bursting to share.

The vast majority of people are kind.  99 out of a 100 are welcoming.  I don't want to make it seem otherwise because I love our parish and most people are absolutely amazing.  But it's hard to miss the shaken head and glare of disgust by someone who won't look away when they see Mae in the stroller that she needs to get through Mass, or hear her sweet chirping voice when she's excited.

At this point we don't ever go in through the glass doors anymore.  We stay in the vestibule.  I tried going in for a while, but she would giggle, or squeal with glee as she stared at the cross and even while I quickly shuffled out with her I would see the looks (which are not the same looks I get on those rare days when I have James with me by myself and he lefts out a cry).

The looks made me sick to my stomach.  I would stare back, waiting until they finally dropped their gaze.  Sorry, no, you don't glare at my four year old (I haven't tried it since she's turned five).

I'd need to go to confession for the thoughts that would fly through my mind.

It hasn't been a problem lately though, because the last two months the morning sickness have allowed me to go to Mass exactly one time,  

But I've gotten away from the point.  The stroller.  We wouldn't be able to go to Mass without the stroller.  Whether or not people understand it, it's her safe space in a busy, noisy, incense filled world.

Maggie has a hard time with certain sounds.  Some of them, we know.  If her sister coughs one time, her face will crumble and she will collapse sobbing "hurts" and clutching her head.  If she hears certain musical instruments, or sounds, the response is also painful.

Often she's excited to Mass.  I've seen her throw back her head and positively glow with joy at the consecration.  Sometimes I hear her whispering to herself about Jesus as she stares at the crucifix.

Other times, that are far more rare, it's clearly too much.  Her stroller, however, has become a safe place.  Most days she sits in it quietly now, but when we've tried to remove the stroller things have gone dramatically in the wrong direction.

One particularly memorable Mass we tried and I got to go home with a broken nose from a stray flailing (and entirely unintentional) kick to the face from the terrified child.

So for the time being, the stroller stays.

I understand the security concerns that have caused this Church to take the steps that they obviously feel are necessary to keep people safe.  The climate we live in is very much filled with fear and this is honestly one of the less radical ideas I've seen suggested.

I hope it doesn't catch on though.  I hope that before they ban the materials that make it possible for many families to go to Mass, they set up walk through metal detectors and have those uniformed police officers that the article mentioned (or perhaps other security personnel), check large, worrisome bags like they do at Disney World (or like they do at the local ER).

A check of strollers outside would be easy to do as well.  Ours has no baskets and no place to hide anything.  It is, quite simply, a seat to help our daughter feel safe.  Again, I'll use the Disney World example where people without large bags or strollers can go in one line, and those who need to be checked go through another.

I also can't help but wonder what comes next.  Will we be taking off our shoes so they can be checked?  Pat downs at the door?  Evil people have come up with plenty of ways to attempt to bypass security checks.  Is that pregnant woman really pregnant or is she concealing something else beneath her maternity shirt?

Mass can be really, really hard for some families.  I pray that we don't see this sort of thing expanding and catching on at other parishes, and making it incredibly difficult, or even in cases like ours, entirely impossible, for families who are trying to raise children in the faith to go to Mass.

I pray for those making these decisions, trying to keep the people within their Churches safe, that they will be prudent in making these decisions and in balancing the actual risks with the real possibility that they're making it impossible for some families and individuals to come to Mass.  

Read more here: http://www.charlotteobserver.com/news/local/article49331535.html#storylink=cpy

Sadie at Mass

Yesterday we went to Mass.

I have this theory.  Maybe if we go to some weekday Masses, that is Masses that aren't on average eighty minutes long, my children will get used to being in church and not act like they're being murdered sixty minutes in.  Not that they aren't used to being at Mass, but you know, desperate times call for desperate measures.

I'm not sure where this theory came from, but I got it into my head and figured it couldn't be worse that standing outside while a certain two year old screamed for sixty minutes either. 

Maggie has actually, in general, been doing much better at Mass.  Most days she can make it to homily being almost entirely quiet.  She'd have a few little joyful squeals of "Ga-wa" as she stared at the crucifix in the front of the church, but her behavior has really come a long, long way this summer, while I was juggling the four of them by myself. 

Patch on the other hand struggles. Or I struggle with Patch.  Which I know is entirely age appropriate.  And I've more of less resigned myself to spending the next years in the vestibule and maybe forever (at least that's what it feels like some days). 

Still I've felt guilty about Sadie having to hang out in the vestibule with us.  She's good at Mass, a little day dreamy, but she is perfectly capable of sitting for seventy or eighty or ninety minutes in silence.  But I haven't quite felt comfortable just leaving her in there for an entire Mass by herself.

Until now. 

Yesterday she asked if she could go inside and sit by herself.  I told her yes, she just needed to make sure she followed along with everyone else, and she could sit wherever she wanted to. 

I watched from the vestibule as she quietly walked to the front and genuflected, her knee touching the ground, before entering the pew. 

Paul had taken Maggie inside too, and I was wrangling Patch and James, wishing that they were both asleep, although neither of them was. 

For forty minutes I watched as she stood and sat and knelt at all the right times, her head turned intently forward the entire time, while I wrestled with Patch and swayed back and forth lest James scream every time I stopped moving.  Midway through the homily Maggie was done, and Paul brought her out to sit with us too.   

That's Sadie at the bottom right hand side in her chosen seat.

As Mass drew to an end Paul took our middle two out to the car.  I stood at the glass door and watched Sadie. 

Mass was over and she knelt.  People filed out.  The church was nearly empty.  She continued to kneel, her head bowed. 

Finally I quietly walked up and put my hand on her shoulder and whispered that it was time to go. We had to get home for Maggie's therapy session. 

She jumped up, bobbed another genuflect, whispered "I love you Jesus, bye!" and followed me out, her American Girl Doll, Kate, tucked under her arm. 

In the car she told me that Kate had done a good job, but wasn't good at kneeling.  And she asked if she could sit by herself, even on Sunday's.  I said yes, that sounded like a great idea. 

And then I reminded myself of a time when she was small and bouncing off the walls at Mass, of the time when she bit Paul's shoulder hard before smiling sweetly at the elderly woman sitting behind us, of the meltdowns and tantrums and hours that I thought would never end.  Having that little reminder that the tantrum phase isn't forever is heartening when you're in the thick of things. 

Maybe it won't be forever before we're all back in the pew together too.

On Barely Not Crying at Mass

Oh yeah... this was supposed to be a WIWS post!
This is what I wore.
For more WIWS head over to FLAP!

We left Mass early today.

I was done.  Paul had just whispered "so what do you want to do?" and I could tell that he didn't want to leave but I whispered back "leave right now" and somehow managed not to burst into tears.  

It had been a rough half hour and I didn't have it in me to make it for another forty minutes until the doors opened up and we all tumbled back out into the sunlight.  

Maggie's been going to therapy two days a week at her therapy center.  She loves it there.  

In the mornings she waits by the door, hoping she's going to go out to play in the colorful playroom with her new best friend.  

She has a best friend.  

And this is where it gets complicated.  

For all the ups and downs we've dealt with, Mae's never been violent.  But she has a new friend and apparently her friend has "behaviors."  And Maggie thinks these "behaviors" are hilariously funny.  

So she laughs before she runs up behind me and hits me and when I tell her no she hits me again and then hits herself, hard, still laughing (as if to show me "look Mom, don't say no!  It really is fun), trying to get me to take up this new game that is apparently very, very attractive to my sensory seeking girl who has a very high threshold for proprioceptive input (in other words her joints need lots of input and she tends to think that things like getting hit by a swing and thrown ten feet should make her laugh instead of cry).  

Ignoring it isn't working.  Sternly saying no isn't working.  In fact, nothing that usually works seems to be helping at all.  Do I pull her out of those two days at the center, taking away the one friend her own age that she has?  If I wait will these behaviors continue to increase and become second nature?  Will she be a good influence on her new friend?  If I pull her out will they stop?  

Now you're probably wondering how this relates to Mass.  Or maybe you aren't, but I'll tell you anyways as I get to the point of this post in a round about way.  

Mae was having a good day at Mass.  She was sitting next to me in her stroller quietly, cuddling her mermaid doll, occasionally reaching over to squeeze my hand.  

Another mom brought a cute little toddler out of Mass and set her down on the floor.  She toddled over and looked at Mae.   Mae loves babies and toddlers.  Her face glowed when she saw the little girl looking at her.  

"Girl!" She shouted and started to squeal.  

"Yes, she's a girl."  I whispered the words.  "We need to be quiet right now, remember.  We're in Mass."  

The words didn't get in.  The squealing turned into loud, loud laughter as the little girl came closer.  Paul, who'd had his hands full with Patch, came over to try to help.  I stepped between Mae and the little girl as she walked up and tried to stand by Mae's feet and I looked over at her mother who'd glanced over and was now looking forward, apparently having decided not to act.  

After ten minutes of trying to redirect Mae, of trying to keep the little girl away from her for her own safety (Mae loves babies... Mae also doesn't know her own strength so any interactions with very small people need to be seriously monitored and managed) and trying to hush Mae's excited giggles and squeals I'd been hit may thirty times and was done.  

The little girl toddled away and tried to touch someone's empty car seat and was immediately reprimanded.  

I kind of felt like tearing my hair out.  It was very obvious that her daughter trying to stand two inches from Mae was causing huge problems for our entire family, that Mae had been sitting quietly until her daughter came up and stood right in front of her for ten minutes and nothing was done, but touch someone's car seat and she snapped into action.  

And so when I got slapped one more time I was done.  I was frustrated and tearful and James was now awake because of the commotion and done.  The little girl was still toddling to and fro and would likely be over with us again within a few moments and I just couldn't stand there for a moment longer.  

We left before the homily ended.  "It was obvious, wasn't it?  That I was trying to keep them apart?  That she should have done something?" I said to Paul as we waited for the light to change so that we could walk home.

"It was obvious."  He agreed as we crossed the street and I complimented Sadie on how well behaved she'd been.  

Later at home I began to turn the attempt at attending Mass over in my head.  

And for some reason another memory kept butting in.  

I remembered a day at Pediatric Rehab when a boy came in for his first appointment.  He was maybe eight or nine years old.  He wasn't as small as Maggie and wasn't nearly as easy (if it can be called easy) to contain.  

It was clear that it was his first day there, because his mother and father were buried under a mountain of paperwork and were checking off boxes and filling in insurance numbers, but right away, I could sense their apprehension. 

Their son seemed to be on the spectrum and they were nervous, and he was nervous, and while they checked boxes they tried to contain his movements and any time a child tottered by to look at the fish tank I could feel their stress level climb from five seats away.  

Sadie, who seems to think of herself as the personal welcoming committee of the waiting room usually flutters around talking to everyone.  She colors on the chalkboard and points out fish, gets coloring pages for other kids and hands out crayons and talks and says things like "it was lovely talking with you today" when her OT comes to find her.  Sometimes the other kids talk back and sometimes they don't and it doesn't really phase her because she's used to talking to someone who doesn't really talk back.   

"Come here," I told her a few times that day as her bubbly friendliness began to turn in their direction, because even at the distance I could tell that she was too close for their comfort and I wished that there was a secret handshake or sign, or even words that wouldn't sound as terribly awkward as they sounded in my head to let them know that in a way I understood. 

So mostly I sat frozen, wishing I could say something or do something to ease the incredible feeling of tenseness and finally not saying anything at all.  

I have a daughter with autism and I didn't know what to do to help.  

And I wondered if maybe that's how the other mother felt today.

With her squeals and sounds it becomes more clear every month that Mae isn't a typically developing almost-five-year old.  

Maybe that other mother was worried if she hurried over and snatched her daughter away that we would be offended by the movement and be upset.  There are so many articles and posts about how moms with disabilities wish you would treat their kids and maybe her common sense told her to let her little girl play with this little girl who was a little bit different (and outside of Mass I would be all for that!).

Or maybe she was just oblivious and happy that her daughter was being quiet while she was standing by our family.

Either way, we survived (if you call leaving half way through surviving).  And tomorrow I'll be making a few phone calls so that hopefully we can begin addressing this new "behavior" which I will be praying is incredibly short lived... At least so far it seems to be limited to me.  I hope it stays that way.

WIWS: A Snow Storm Post



There was much debate this morning about whether or not we would be making it to Mass.  You see, my phone has been filled with weather alerts telling me that we're expected to get nine inches of snow this morning with winds up to 30 mph. 

 

Still. No one was sick.  And after months of someone (or three) always being sick I really, really didn't want to miss.  Who knows when some sort of horrible virus will strike again.  It is still winter.  And we live very close to our parish, although not quite close enough to walk with all the kids in the wind and snow.  Can you see how I was justifying going, even though the weather seemed to be saying that maybe it wasn't the greatest idea?

 

So I bundled everyone up.  James got snuggled in a sleeper:

 

 

Why yes, this is my bassinet in the kitchen
where I watch Mommy cook and am
safe from the affections of my brother and sisters.

And we piled in the car and made our way to Mass.  The roads weren't great.  But they weren't horrible either.

We knew we would likely have to leave right after receiving for Paul to make it to work on time.  Especially with the storm.



 

I don't usually snap pictures of the Mass... I was outside in the narthex and it's just so beautiful with the ad orientem novus ordo that I wanted to share it with all of you:

There was one moment in Mass that I hope I never forget.  I want the image to be burned into my memory for the rest of my life.

I was pacing in the narthex, trying to get Patch to fall asleep (or just not whine about not being allowed to run around). 

I had been trying to focus on the Mass, but my shoulders were starting to really hurt and I was exhausted and my mind was turning more and more to the ache than I'd have liked. Suddenly I heard Maggie let out a loud, happy squeal.  I turned around and hushed her, but as I hushed her I saw her... really saw her....and  as she fell silent I froze.

Her head was thrown back, and her eyes were dancing.  Her face positively glowed with what can only be described as pure joy.  She'd flung her arms out to the side and they were raised slightly with her palms turned up towards the ceiling.  There was no doubt in my mind that I was looking at pure, joyful praise. 

And then I looked past her and saw the priest with the Eucharist raised, being consecrated, and the beauty of the moment was so achingly clear that I wanted to hold on to it forever. 

I snapped a blurry picture a few minutes later... it doesn't come close to capturing the look she had in that moment... but it hints at it.

Then it was back out into the snow. 

There were teeny tiny blowing snowflakes everywhere:

I could hear Patch doing something behind me, but when I tried to snap a picture he looked away...

And so, for Mass, this is what I wore this Sunday.  It's my favorite brown dress from Talbots (via ThredUp).  With my Gap Maternity jacket (so perfect for wearing with a wrap and also from Thred Up) and my Hush Puppy boots, which stayed amazingly dry.

And so that you could actually see my dress I had Paul snap a couple of pictures before he rushed off to work:

For more WIWS head over to FLAP! 

When Staying Home is the Right Thing to Do

The great hospital stay of '2012...

I was recently involved in a conversation where someone announced that, short of being hospitalized, they refuse to miss Mass.  It doesn't matter if a member of the family is sick, they will be there on Sunday, because they aren't going to stay home just because "someone else might catch the sniffles."
I had to exit the conversation, after begging the person to stay home if they're sick and being told that they absolutely would not (and that I should be thankful that I don't go to their parish...), to keep from saying exactly what I think of this attitude.

Thankfully, I have blogging, where I can say exactly what I think in a general way, which so often keeps me from saying what I think about a specific situation out loud (or stewing over what I didn't say for days afterwards).

I know Rebecca already wrote a great post on this topic, but after seeing it come up again and again this Advent/Christmas/flu season I feel that it really can't be said enough.

Please, if you're sick, stay home from Mass.  You're excused.  You don't need to confess it or agonize over whether it was a sin.  It's not.  When you're ill you don't have to go to Mass.  It's really quite simple.

Sometimes going to Mass through all the challenges that life throws at us can become a point of pride.  When I look long and hard at my own experiences in the past I think it had become exactly that for me, and it was humbling when I realized (after speaking with my pastor and explaining our situation) that sometimes I really shouldn't be there (but that's really it's own post, since that has little to do with illness and everything to do with the beautiful but very strong sensory experience that is the Mass).

I was proud that I didn't miss Mass for years, that I was there, in agonizing pain days after my first c-section, that we braved dangerous roads and blizzard conditions to be there one Christmas Eve, and that as soon as I was released from the hospital we were bringing our newborn babies to the next Sunday Mass.

I don't think it's bad to push yourself to go if you aren't putting yourself or anyone else at risk.  That's a personal decision to work out for yourself.

Everything changes though, when you're putting others at risk by going to Mass when you're sick.  I know it can be hard, especially when an illness is being passed around through your family and it seems to go on and on and on.  Believe me, I know what that's like.

I also know what it's like to not have the greatest immune system.  While I tend to be totally able to fight off illness when I'm not pregnant, any illnesses when I'm pregnant, from the first trimester onward, tend to take a nasty turn.  That week I spent with the infectious disease team at our local hospital where they were starting sentences with phrases like "You'll probably live if..." has forever changed how I look at little old viruses that don't seem that serious.

And after the last two pregnancies and many, many viruses my OB pointed out this last time that it seems that any little illness sends me into labor now... which was the reason for all those trips to labor and delivery where James thankfully managed to stay put this last time.

Between my own experience and watching Maggie have a fever for roughly three months out of this past year, and going through round after round of antibiotics and tests and fears and doctor's appointments and hospital visits wondering whether something was seriously wrong, since she just wasn't getting better as the fever bounced from 99 degrees some days to 104 other days, my thoughts on going to Mass when a person is ill has crystallized.

It can be hard to imagine when you're healthy and the flu means being sick for a day or two... but for the very young and the very old and those with compromised immunity, a "little virus" can be life threatening... or even life ending.

Sometimes it's kinder to make the sacrifice not to go so that you don't endanger others and put them at risk for a hospital visit, or worse.

After all, even if you avoid others you're still likely touching door knobs and doors, pews, the holy water font and possibly receiving the precious blood (and that's not to mention air born viruses).

Jesus knows your heart.  He knows that you want to be there.  And he sees the sacrifice that you're making when you can't be there because you're putting others ahead of yourself and staying home.  So please if you're sick, stay home from Mass.  Those who go who aren't quite as strong and healthy will be grateful that you're not putting them at risk, and you'll get the rest that you need to get better as quickly as you possibly can.

On Teaching Kids to Behave in Mass and How I Used to Know it All...

I used to know so much more than I do now.  Even after Sadie was born and I had so many of my bright and shiny and carefully researched ideas about parenting smacked down, others apparently still remained.  The one that stands out at the moment would be our time at Mass.

We took Sadie every week and most week we went more than once a week to Mass at our local parish.  We sat up front once she was big enough to be aware of her surroundings.  We didn't do toys or snacks, although she could hold her Holy Baby nun doll, and a children's Bible or other religious book was allowed, and we talked about how we were going to Mass to see Jesus and it was time for her to be a big girl and be on her best behavior. She had special shoes just for Mass. She knew she was in our arms until she was three and then we began to let her sit next to us, if she could be good.

She had expectations for quiet time at home, when we did the family rosary and while we certainly had tough days (a few stand out in my memory even now) and we spent plenty of time in the narthex and standing outside, overall there was steady improvement as she emerged from the toddler years.  By the time she was three she had pretty much calmed down, by the time she was four I barely had to talk with her about misbehaving and now that she's five she's been able to sit through an entire Mass (and participate, sitting, standing and kneeling) by herself while I was at the back with the babies.

At one point I was patting myself on the back at what a good little Mass goer we'd raised.  After all, I'd read every book and article I could get my hands on about how to teach your child to behave at Mass and they'd worked. We'd followed the advice!  I was practically an expert!

I think you can see what's coming, right?  Pride comes right before you get smacked upside the head with a handful of cheerios or something like that?

You see, we've done the same things with our current three year old to wildly different results (heavy on the "wildly" in that sentence, because Mass with Mae is nothing if not wild).

Lately I've seen a lot of articles and even a Youtube video out there about how to get your children to behave at Mass, and after seeing the video, which basically said that if a kid isn't behaving and is still having consistent problems at the age of three the problem is the parents and not the kids, I was ready to write a post for myself and for those of you who's kids aren't quite ready at three to sit in perfect reverent silence and focus on the beauty of the Mass regardless on how you explain it or how hard you work at home.

The thing is, some kids are ready, developmentally to behave at Mass when they're three.  Some kids may even do it at a younger age.  I once saw a baby Patrick's age sitting on a booth chair next to her mother at a restaurant in perfect silence for the entire meal and I couldn't stop staring.  How do I get one of those, I thought, as I wrestled with my own child who was about the same age and who seemed perfectly incapable of stopping herself from grabbing things to throw them on the floor, and who often followed these antics with attempting a risky maneuver to try to escape from the high chair seat belt (by the way that would be my current big girl Mass goer).

Maybe you have a child who behaves perfectly at Mass at a certain age and that's great.  But for other children the developmental milestone of being quiet for an hour (or longer) just isn't there yet.  If they have special needs it might be even further off. And that doesn't mean that their parents doing anything wrong or that it's their fault.  It just means that the child isn't quite there yet and that they still have a while longer to spend time in the purgatory that is the narthex or wherever they take their crying little one when they act up.

And for those parents it can be humbling (especially, speaking from personal experience, if your three year old is the size of a five year old).

Because let me tell you, it was way easier explaining to a three year old Sadie how to act and following the rules outlined in everything I'd read than it is on any given Sunday to deal with my current little handful.  She just isn't quite there yet.  It isn't for lack of trying on her part or ours.  And I'm sure the day will come when she will be ready.  But the magic age of 36 months just didn't do it for her, just as it doesn't for plenty of other kids.

When I heard the guy on the youtube video explaining how it was a parent's fault if a three year old still acted up I chuckled to myself and wished he could borrow a sensory seeking child for a couple of Masses.

So if you're a mom or dad and your little one isn't quite ready to sit still for an hour and you've tried everything the experts advise and feel like your at wits end, know that you're not alone.  There's nothing wrong with what you've been doing.  It is not your fault.

Kids are different.  They reach developmental milestones at different points.  Some read earlier.  Some are ready to try their hand at math earlier. And some are ready to sit quietly for an hour when they're three, while others hit that milestone at a later date.

Hang in there and know that you're not alone (although I'm fairly certain you know that if there are many other parents at your parish).  I'll be with you at the back of the Church for a while longer yet, dreaming of the day when all of our little ones can sit quietly in a pew, but also not quite ready to give up these precious baby years of cuddly kisses and sweetly smelling baby cheeks... even if they sometimes entail quite a bit of pacing and rocking and hushing.

Best. Day. Ever.

Yesterday might very well have been the best day of Sadie's entire life.  Can you guess why?  Here's a clue:

We were running late yesterday as we hurried through the snow and then into the crypt at the cathedral, the silence meeting my ear in the hallway before we turned the corner and could see that Mass actually (thankfully!) hadn't started yet.

Then I realized that it was Saint Blaise's feast day and that the line going up to the kneelers (after a brief moment where I thought "we aren't that late, are we?") was for the blessing of the throats.  I whispered and asked Sadie if she would like to go up to be blessed and she whispered back "yes" enthusiastically.  As we approached the altar I whispered a second time, telling her that she would need to kneel like a big girl on the kneeler.

Which is probably when the excitement just about overwhelmed her since she's pretty much been waiting to kneel on her own kneeler next to me for the past two years.

So she knelt next to me and received the blessing with a candle just like the one above (I'd never seen one like that before!).  I think she crossed herself all of three times while kneeling there.  Then it was Patrick's turn for a blessing, still in the Moby Wrap, and I gently hushed Sadie as she started to say:  "Excuse me, excuse me, that's my little brother and..." her voice trailed off beneath my quiet "shhhhhhh" although I imagine her next words would have been "he's too little" because clearly in her mind this was a very, very big girl thing to be doing.

Of course that meant that she renewed her efforts to receive the Eucharist when communion time came around, tilting her little head back and sticking out her tongue hopefully.

Only three more years kid.  You're more than halfway there.

Bringing Little Ones to Mass... A Useless Venture?

Last week, I read a discussion about taking children to Mass, and in many ways I could see both sides of the debate that followed.  I have strong opinions on the issue when it comes to what's best for our little family, because I've witnessed a beautiful blossoming of faith in Sadie as she's grown, and as her desire for the Eucharist seems to grow every single week.  At the same time I know wonderful Catholic bloggers who wait until their children are older to take them to Mass, who raise amazing faith filled children, and I wouldn't criticize the choices they've made as children before the age of reason are not required to attend Mass and their strategy for teaching their little ones in those early years has worked very well for them.

There was, however, a side in the discussion that made me uneasy (and inspired this post).  There were posts that were adamant that it was simply wrong for children to attend Mass at a young age, particularly as babies.  There was no benefit whatsoever, they insisted, and no reason to do so.  Whatever grace a baby supposedly received was obviously imagined.

And I have to say... I adamantly disagree.  Experience has taught me that the exact opposite is true.

By the time I found out that I was pregnant with Sadie, I'd been Catholic for not quite a year and I was volunteering in our little parish's office, and attending Mass twice a week.  The prayers that surrounded us during that time were amazing.  You see, we lived in an area with a high number of retirees, and our little Church didn't have many families.  As a result, before she was born, Sadie was already the "Church Baby" loved and prayed for by many.  Those prayers were surrounded us as we stumbled through the early days of parenthood.

When she arrived it seemed natural that I'd take her to Mass with me.  While I haven't actually read any books on attachment parenting, the method of parenting I practice most closely resembles what I've heard about it, simply because it made sense to me that my newborn and later infant and toddler, would be with me all the time.  She came along with me everywhere, and spent many a morning in her sling while we were in the parish office after a weekday Mass.  People were happy to see her.  Later, when I did occasionally leave her with Nani while I ran in to Mass (when I was very pregnant with Mae) people were quite disappointed not to visit with her afterwards.

On a practical level, I did see benefits in bringing her along and teaching her that we acted a certain way in Mass, from the very beginning.  Sure I spent plenty of time in the narthex.  I've also spent plenty of time outside the front door, explaining in a serious voice to my now-toddler, that we acted a certain way at Mass, that we were there to see Jesus, and that if we had to go outside we'd be standing looking at the wall, and it wasn't going to be fun.  There was much more to see inside, particularly since we sat up in the front row where she could see everything that was going on.

Now, as a mother who's juggled two little ones at Mass, and watched as they've grown through difficult times, one thing began to become clear to me.  Little ones may not understand exactly what's going on. But still moments arrive when I find myself utterly amazed by what they do notice.  The beauty and love and mystery of what's occurring before their eyes can still touch their little hearts.  And when they're older, like Sadie is, they'll begin to piece together what's happening, with a simple faith that we as adults might well long for.

Last week at Mass I was feeling like my regular dizzy, faint self.  It was a High Mass, and I wasn't sure how long Mae would make it for.  Would she make it to the homily?  Probably.  But after that all bets were off.  Now regular readers have probably gotten a pretty good estimation of Mae's personality.  She isn't one of those quiet, compliant toddlers.  Yesterday, while I was writing my blog post, she climbed up on my kitchen counter, retrieved a five pound beg of sugar, and dumped it all over the house (all under Daddy's nose).  Then when we went outside she ran over to roll in a pile of dirt (this I could tolerate) and then threw herself into a thistle bush and then back into the dirt to roll around a bit more (the bath that followed and the sticker picking out from her hair was not enjoyable for either of us).  She's also what you would call "a runner."  If you put her down she takes off and doesn't look back, perfectly confident that someone is following he and keeping her safe.  So good behavior at Mass is not guaranteed.  And with the added length of a high Mass, all bets were off.  It could have been a very long 60+++ minutes.

Instead, for the second week in a row, she sat next to me, holding a small doll and a chaplet, until after communion, when Daddy scooped her up and held her.

The most amazing moment for me, however, at the consecration, when she looked up, smiled from ear to ear so that her entire face glowed with joy, and began to giggle and clap her hands.  Then she went back to playing with my Saint Philomena chaplet.  That moment, and the pure joy I saw reflected in her little 27 month old face, has stayed with me all week.

At home Sadie showers me with questions.  She loves hearing about Saint Michael.  She demands Saint Therese stories.  When Paul arrived home earlier in the week she announced to him that Jesus had come to earth to open the gates of heaven for us.  Sometimes she'll look at me and say: "I'm not like an angel because I have bones.  I have a body and a soul.  Angels are pure spirits.  I like having bones.  And skin."  Her constant observations and questions amaze me daily.  When we were driving through Wisconsin, seemingly out of nowhere she announced:  "I hate sin!"

And of course, there is the weekly battle before Mass about whether she's old enough to receive, and I frequently catch her with her little outstretched tongue hoping that the priest will forget that she's only four, as she kneels next to me with her little hands pressed together sweetly.

Yes, I guess for me, the value of taking our children to Mass every week is clearly apparent.  Has it been work?  Absolutely.  Have I missed many a beautiful homily and been distracted (or outside) through breathtaking faith filled moments.  Certainly.  Yet, I think, that the moments that have come in place of those moments, are just as much a precious part of my vocation. They are moments that form me, just as they form my children, for they are often the moments when patience is demanded and my  temper is stretched... They are the moment when I am humbled.. and they are the moments that blossom into something beautiful and sacred, as I watch a love for the most blessed sacrament unfold in the hearts of my little ones.

My attention has been imperfect as has theirs.  We've "missed" a lot over the course of the many masses we've attended as a family.  Still, as I watch my little ones and prepare for the baptism of another, I can't help but marvel at what has been given us over the course of these hours that at times have seemed to stretch on and on.

For our family, the question of whether or not to bring our little ones to Mass has been answered...  and I cannot imagine it any other way!