Goin' to Church!

by Patti

I went to church yesterday for the first time since, well, last time I went to church. Which, I'll be honest since we're talking about church, was a loooooooooooooooooong time ago.

Me and church? It's not that we hate each other; it's just that... I have mixed feelings about it. I think church doesn't mind me; in fact, I'm sure it would welcome me with open arms should I actually decide to darken a church's door on a regular basis. It's just that , for me, church isn't just a place where you have to sit/stand/sit/stand/sit/stand/sit/stand/kneel/sit/stand/kneel/sit/stand for a good hour - it's a place of worship, a place where you are kind of suppposed to mean it if you are there. I'm not a halfway type of person; I'm either all in, or all out. And I just feel like until I can truly commit to being all in, there's no point in church for me.

S, on the other hand? Loves church. Her first, tender years in school meant weekly chapel and daily "Jesus Time", as she attended a little Lutheran preschool in our neighborhood. When she started pelting me with questions about Jesus and the bible, I started feeling like a big, fat hypocrite. Here were M and I, practically heathens in our non-attendance of church and all things religious; yet we were sending our developing, learning, curious little girl off into the world of church and religion, with absolutely no basis to back it all up.
S attended that preschool for five years, and now, six years later, she still misses the whole ritual of church and asks me to take her to church on regular basis. I mean, does that qualify for me for an express train to hell, or what?

The service I attended yesterday was for the baptism of my dear friend's little boy. It was a full mass cumulnating in his baptism, and I have to admit: it was kind of cool. Sure, it was an old school church with no air conditioning, and it was so damned hot one actually had to wonder if we were actually in hell instead of church (yes, I KNOW I'm going to be struck by lightning), but I have to say: despite the heat and the neverending sit/stand/kneel/sit/stand/kneel of it all, it wasn't bad. I made myself really listen to the pastor rather than cave to my tendency to let my mind wander and is it just me or does the pastor's assistant look like a muppet? And I found that in really listening, I actually took away a few little nuggets of stuff to think about. And the best part was looking over to S, all dressed up in her Sunday Best, and watching her listen. At one point, I leaned into her and whispered, "Do you miss this?" She smiled up at me and gave a little nod.

I looked to the back of the church, where M had found a seat since he came in a little late (of COURSE), and caught his eye. M  has a very complicated relationship with church - much worse than mine. He grew up with church a not once, not twice, but thrice-weekly part of his life. He had church for breakfast lunch and dinner. And then, once he was able to, he purged it and swore off of it for good. M believes in a higher power; he just does not believe in the institute of church, religion, and the guys who wear $3,000 suits while they preach to the "sheep".  The fact his married pastor was bedding nubile, wide-eyed teens while preaching to his flock about the sanctity of marrige didn't help matters. To M, church is a shady "business" that has millions fooled.

Take a bowl and throw in S, who longs for the ritual and community of church, mix that up with the anti-church M, who is fiercely rolling his eyes as the hymnal books are being passed down the pews, and toss in me, the cusses-like-a-truckdriver mother who has impure thoughts about Adam Levine WHILE IN CHURCH, and that is one fucked-up cake.

I'm still thinking about what to do for S. I have very strong feelings about teaching children to believe things you don't 100% commit to yourself. It just feels hypocritical to me. I also have very strong feelings about doing things just because everyone else does them, especially when often times they don't even know the real why of why they are doing it.

But I also have very strong feelings about my daughter. And since I have taken the stance from the moment I found out she would come to be that, while I intended to provide as much guidance and wisdom as my still-learning self could muster up, she would only pass through me - not be my property. This means I also have strong feelings about respecting who she is and wants to be, and if that means church, then I guess it means church.

At the end of the service, the childhood memory of my church-going years came back to me as all of the strangers became friends, hugging one another and shaking hands, wishing one another peace. S wrapped her arms around my waist. "Peace be with you, mommy."
I'm working on it, honey.

Nail Salon Newbies

by Cathy

When you were a child, did your mother ever take you to the nail salon? Heck, did your mother herself ever even go to the nail salon? For me, that's a no and a no.

In fact, the first time I ever got a professional manicure or pedicure, I was in my late twenties.  Getting a mani/pedi just wasn't as IN back then as it now. Besides, we were DIYers; my mom was a certified beautician so she cut our hair, highlighted it, colored her own and polished our nails (as well as her own). We always looked like a million bucks without spending the million bucks.

So when my daughter asked for a nail salon party for her 11th birthday, I thought 'Why not? This could be fun.' There were seven girls in total, each of who got the choice of getting either a mani or a pedi. Bella could get both since she was the birthday girl. And Ari? My five-year old? She asked for a pedicure.

I stepped back and observed while they selected their service and color. They each took on a different, more mature persona as they decided: Mani or pedi? Which color? Nail art? Should I mix TWO colors? Should I alternate colors?

Ari, for example, hemmed and hawed over her decision for quite some time; this was very unlike her usually decisive self. She was awestruck at the color options as she looked up at the massive wall shelving unit that was brimming with every shade of every color in the rainbow and then some. "Mommy, pick me up so I can see the ones on top!" she squealed every so often. I patiently lifted and suggested and oohed and ahhed, but she would have none of it. She knew what she was looking for, and after a good twenty minutes and multiple choice changes later, she settled on a reddish-pink color.

Bella came off as a complete pro. Unlike her usual indecisive self, she promptly chose her turquoise color, was shown to her seat immediately and proceeded to set the massage chair to the setting of her choice. She picked up a tabloid magazine next to her, settled in and was thoroughly enjoying her spa time. It's as if she's done this millions of times before. She didn't really have any interest in observing the steps, the process or how anything was done. She was just intent on relaxing.

Ari, on the other hand, had to sit waaaaaay up close to the edge of the large leather recliner, and was intent on watching every. single. thing. the lady was doing and how she did it. She was in awe. Her tiny feet were inserted into the humongous plastic flip flops as the woman laughed lovingly at Ari's smallness and topped off her pedicure with some daisies on her big toes. Ari was squealing with delight.

Part of the thrill of watching your kids grow up is taking in how they experience new things. It was such a joy for me to experience such a womanly rite of passage with them for the first time at the ages they are now. And although we are big advocates of DIY, we will definitely plan some mother-daughter days at the nail salon at least once a year going forward. It's now officially, the IN thing to do.