In the days before children, I remember going to church one Sunday and sitting behind a young family, with three small children much the same ages as ours. I watched as they wriggled around whilst their parents desperately tried to keep them under control during the service. The poor mother was utterly horrified when she discovered their small son chewing a piece of gum that he had clearly found stuck under his pew. At the closing hymn, the parents looked genuinely joyful as they bellowed out the words, looking at each other in relief that they only had to endure another few minutes before they could release their children from the church. For me, as an onlooker, it was all fairly amusing.
A few weekends ago, I took the children to church and by the end of it, I was certainly not amused. We arrived promptly, to allow for parking the buggy in a suitably safe location. I confidently directed the children to the second pew from the front, believing it to be important for them to see what is going on. We were of course now in full view of the rest of the congregation. Thankfully, we were diluted by our friends with their three small children who shuffled into the pew behind us. We were kindly offered ‘Busy Bags,’ full of wonderful small, silent distractions for the children, which I politely declined on the basis that I wanted them to concentrate on being in church – a decision I was later going to regret.
For the first fifteen minutes I stood proudly with my little brood quietly nestled around me. It was The Baby who began to get twitchy first. He started wriggling on my knee, decided he wanted to get down and then crawl along the pew. He shouted out, “Ma Ma. Look,” as only a toddler can who has not yet learnt the art of whispering. Predictably this was followed by him hitting his head. There was the silent pause as his small mouth opened and the rip roaring scream erupted which I desperately tried to smother in my jumper. Meanwhile, the other two children had embarked on a loud religious discussion. “God is everywhere,” said my daughter. “He is even in your eye,” added my son. I desperately attempted to sssssh everyone, bribing them with biscuits afterwards. My son then said he needed the loo. In full view of everyone, I shuffled out and strolled down the aisle to the back of the church, with The Baby under my arm. We returned to our seats for some prayers and just as we were silently thinking about our own intentions, my son asked loudly, “Is God going to give us the biscuits soon?” I felt hot and vey flustered. As the vicar told us to “Go in Peace,” I could not hold back and cried out, “Thanks be to God.”
