Paradox of the Century

Lately I have been mentally on my own case that I should really be attending and taking the children to daily Mass whenever possible. Or at least a little more than -not at all-. So this past Friday when everyone was up and had eaten by 7:00 and then the baby even woke up early, I thought it would be a good day to give it a try. (W & F the church 1/2 mile from our house has an 8 am)

However, unfortunately (and uncharacteristically) I encountered resistance from the children when I announced that it was time to get ready to leave to make it to Mass on time. I overcame that hurdle and made it just in time for the bell signaling the beginning of Mass. I was planning to just slip into one of the back pews since this was a first attempt, but the boys were asking to go up front like usual. How can you refuse that? So I reluctantly took them about 3/4 the way to the front and chose a pew. (With everyone in the whole place watching. Seemingly. It's a small church with sparse attendance.) Plus, I had stupidly forgotten to bring the maya wrap in all the trouble to get there, so I was carrying the baby in the big, clunky carseat. ugh. So as I was bending down to pick up the baby the boys forced the kneeler down (it was against my leg), with a loud clunk. I soon discovered that it was on my sandal. And they were both standing on it, making it impossible to free myself. While holding the baby. At this time they were both crowding the end of the thing to be able to stand by me and when I tried moving them inward so we could get situated, Honeybun stumbled and hit his forehead on the pew. Crying ensued. Stares, glares, and humiliation. Oh, I was so embarrassed. After trying to hold out and get him to stop crying for a few minutes, without success, and after many irritated glances, I decided to take him (and the baby in my arms) to the back of the church. I assumed Little Wideawake would just tag along, but, instead, HE started crying in the pew thinking he'd been abandoned and left all alone. So I turned around, grabbed his hand, grabbed the carseat, and fled to the cryroom. I heard shush!es on the way. There are hardly words to describe the embarrassment that I felt. Add on top of that severe frustration, anger, and a weird mix of confusion and heartbrokenness and you might have an idea of how I felt. It was good that we made it to the cryroom because, once there, I shed a few tears of my own.

This is not, however, the mediocre end of the story of a Mass trip that could be salvaged. No. Because after a few minutes of collecting myself and trying to regain any semblance of composure, I realized that since it was only a daily Mass the speaker system was not working so that with the door shut it was literally impossible to recognize anything that was being said. And because of this, the boys were just wandering around in there like nothing was going on. So I evaluated the situation, took stock of my emotional state, observed the children, weighed my options, and decided to leave.

Deciding to leave felt awful, but, at the time I felt it was the best option. I can't tell you what it did to me, though. Uhg. I wanted us to be there. I wanted to take my children to Mass. I wanted to be there for my own good and I wanted God to be happy that we were there. But then after everything that happened and while resrapping the children in their seats to leave, I was feeling overwhelmingly that taking my children to daily Mass is worse for my soul than just staying home and taking care of them there.

That was a hard thing to digest on the drive to the grocery store (our next planned destination), during which I forbade my children to speak. We sat parked there for a while until I came to the conclusion that I could not possibly get through that task in any smooth manner. I was still trying to sort through everything, calm down, and determine the lesson God would have me learn from the ordeal on the drive to our parish's adoration chapel (where all I could do was sit parked in the van) and then on the drive to my mother's grave and then on to my grandparents' house. It was only here that I was able to get the boys out of their seats and begin interacting with them again, about an hour and a half after leaving the church.

I still don't really understand the message to me in all of this and I am still really frustrated by the whole thing when I think about it. Any wise and holy insights from you wonderful, faithful mothers would truly be light for my eyes. The only real conclusion I've come to is, "It's going to be awhile before I try that again." And I really don't ever want to go to a Mass with those same people again--they'd probably walk out the minute they see me walk in.