Holy Tantrums, Batman

Ari, my little one, was just shy of two years old. I had taken my girls to church the week before Easter (Holy Week) to receive holy ointment. It's when the priest uses blessed oil on a cotton swab, makes the sign of the cross with it on your forehead, chin, both cheeks, palms and backs of the hand while reciting a special prayer. I've taken Bella, my older daughter, since she was little and she loved the whole process. I had also taken Ari when she was a baby with no problems, but this time, she was at the age where she was more aware of what was going on. And she wasn't having any of it.

As we approached the priest after waiting patiently in a long line for quite some time, I had Ari in my arms. Bella went first, no problem. So then I stepped up and presented Ari to the priest so she can receive her holy oil blessing. Well let me tell you, as soon as that swab touched her face, it's as though the priest was conducting some sort of exorcism. She flipped. She was jerking and resisting so hard she flung the priest's large, ornamented cross almost off his neck while nearly whacking the swabs out of his hands. I looked at the priest with a mixture of horror, embarrassment and apologetic pleading. After trying again to pry Ari's arms away from her beet-red, screaming face, he gave me a reassuring yet regretful look of his own, as if to say, "This isn't going to happen."

So after managing to receive my blessing, all while pinning Ari to my hip and breaking into a sweat, I mustered up my kid and what little was left of my pride, straightened myself out and started the long walk down the middle aisle of the church to exit. To give you an idea of the setup, that middle aisle was flanked by long pews on either side and then yet another aisle along the walls on either side where everyone was waiting reverently to receive their sacrament.

We almost made it out. As we were walking down the center aisle to leave, I put her squirmy little body down since she was hiking my skirt up with all her shuffling. BAD. MOVE. Still crying, she throws a TANTRUM - a sit-down and scream tantrum - smack in the middle of the middle aisle.

The church was packed to the rafters. When i squatted down to attempt to pick her up, balancing shakily on my heels and trying to keep my equilibrium while being weighed down on one side with my big-ass bulky diaper bag, since i brought everything under the sun to distract her, she starts leaning AWAY from me. So I lunged forward and pulled her back BY HER DRESS just in time before she was ready to start her way back towards the priest. In the process, the diaper bag swings around and lands with a thump on the pristine blue runner, just as I dragged her towards me and lifted her up. Yet again, I shakily squatted to pick up that heavy ass bag, while holding her backwards facing the crowd with the other arm, her dress hiked up to her neck, red-faced, kicking and screaming, all while trying to walk out of there (the aisle now seemed like an eternity) without dropping her and with what scraps of dignity I had left. I had broken into a full-out body sweat.

Bella, who had just turned seven at the time, was waiting patiently at the end of the aisle, smartly distancing herself from that whole fiasco, with a look of sympathy on her cute little face.

As I started speed walking to get out, I wondered if churches were considered safe havens for leaving children - you know - like fire stations and hospitals, because I TOTALLY would have left her there that day. Obviosuly, this whole experience was gut-wrenching.

But this all goes back to what I have learned and concluded:
When you become a parent, you have not ONE SHRED of dignity left. Ever. Anywhere. It all goes out the window. Don't try to save face, keep your nose up, dress in dressy clothes or heels, or wear nice jewelry. Just kiss your vanity and pride goodbye, take it in stride and laugh when you want to cry. Because looking back, you WILL laugh and realize that other parents won't judge you because they've been there too.

-Cathy