To quote Betty Duffy,” I had a booger of a sin to confess.” I decided last night I couldn't put it off any longer so I scoured the Internet looking for a local church that holds confession during the week and I made plans to go. I knew I would have to bring all the kids with me because John was working.
I was dreading the scene.
Had it not been for the blackened condition of my soul, I would have skipped this trip altogether.
But I knew I couldn't and as such, I decided I would bite the bullet and take all of them to Mass since we were going to be there anyway.
I had accompanied my children to daily Mass the previous week and was very grateful to the kind lady who held the baby so I could collect the toddler crawling up the aisle on all fours, his tongue waging like a dog. His behavior was offset, of course, by my other precious angels who were busy tossing books, talking, and standing and walking fully erect across the pew to get to a desired spot.
After the “short” 30 minutes, I confess to having questioned Jesus’ invitation to ‘Let the children come to me.”
I’m a glutton
for punishment I needed Confession, I decided to recreate the fun again. Sadly, my darling progeny’s
behavior wasn’t much better save for the fact the three
older kids managed to irritate a nun. At the end of mass, she hobbled
over and chastised all of them for messing with the Sisters' things.
By the time we collected bags and books and dropped possessions and found the Confessional, the wait had morphed into one you might find at a Bon Jovi concert.
I considered leaving.
They're never gonna be able to sit this long, I thought.