Here Goes Nothing . . . .

My wife, Sarah, is a professional writer and blogger, so my first venture into her field comes with a little trepidation. I don’t want to completely embarrass myself in my first online entry.  Sarah recently wrote an article in Runner’s World addressing her biggest conundrum – being a mom/wife while being a dedicated athlete. She’s also covered that topic in a new book , Run Like a Mother, or RLAM, which she co-wrote with fellow mom-jock, Dimity McDowell. They blog, post, and tweet about the topic at www.runlikeamotherbook.com and on Facebook/Twitter.

Sarah is a very dedicated runner, wife, and mother. While she is off channeling her inner marathoner (Saturday she ran 20.1 miles), I hang with the kids (Phoebe (8)) and boy-girl twins John and Daphne (4)).  From the mundane (sleeping/eating breakfast) to the fundane (riding bikes/jumping in puddles), we always find something to do.  On Sundays, that thing we do is go to church at Holy Rosary in NE Portland.

Holy Rosary is very old-school, so there’s no Kumbaya band, no hand-h0lding across the aisle during The Lord’s Prayer, and no five-minute break to exchange a “sign of peace.” It’s a traditional ceremony (the 9AM is part Latin) that appeals to my East Coast upbringing. The sermon can be a little dogmatic, well a lot dogmatic, but a little fire and brimstone helps keep me in line.

Sarah muses in Runner’s World that she fears our kids are singing Happy Birthday in the cry room at the back of the church. We’ve progressed past those days, but it’s still a fight to get the kids in the car for church. Despite the “featured incentives,” e.g., lighting candles, coins for the basket, and post-mass doughnuts/juice, they’re just not that interested. Once we get to church, it’s a different matter.  They’re still not interested in being there, but they are interesting.

This week, John, Daphne, and I (Phoebe had a sleepover) arrived late and there was no room in the proverbial inn (cry room) or anywhere but the front of the church. On the drive there, I told them we would probably sit in the big room (not the cry room) and that they weren’t allowed to talk.  I forgot to mention that they couldn’t whisper, fidget, argue, whine, roam, or ask to be held. What’s that they say about the best laid plans?

We were ushered to the third row, where Father Anthony had a straight-on view of us. The twins refused to go near a woman seated a few feet away. Rather, they shinnied up my sides like terrified howler monkeys. Our entrance would’ve made great Cirque du Soleil fare, but wasn’t winning any indulgences with Father Anthony. After some adjustments, I held Daphne and John straddled the pew and the aisle. Thankfully, my laser stare (inherited from my Dad and appropriate for any solemn occasion) kept John from going free-range.

Little John stands a mere 44 inches tall, but I’m sure he’d have stood his ground with the Spanish Inquisitors. He’s our main contributor at church and this week was no exception. At the end of the biblical readings, we’re supposed to respond “Thanks be to God.” After everyone else finished, John blurted out “THANKS GOD”! I was a little embarrassed and gave him the stare. After the second reading, John did it again. This time, I avoided eye contact with Father Anthony because his laser stare is far better than mine.

John’s next comment came during the Gospel. Another priest, Father Vincent, was reading when John whispered “Why does he get to talk”? I didn’t want to go into it with him then, but thought it was a very good question considering the earlier warning I’d given him.

During the collection, the ever-astute John asked “Why does Jesus need money”? This one whizzed by me like a service ace. I didn’t want to respond for fear of an extended volley of questions. Maybe someday we’ll have the “render unto Caesar that which is his” discussion, but for now just a little more laser stare.

During communion, younger kids are supposed to kneel (or stand) with their arms crossed upon their chests. John and Daphne know the drill. John sees Father Vincent distributing the host and asks if he will get one. A simple “No” in reply from me, as I gently turn his body forward and paste his arms in the proper position. In the past, he’s asked “Why didn’t I get the cookie”? At least he’s making progress.

I guess that taking that kids to church is a bit like herding cats. We’re slowly making headway and we’re letting Mom do her thing. No pun intended, but the good Lord knows I’ll never be a marathoner like Sarah. However, I may just enjoy this blogging thing.