I pack the diaper bag with five different types of snacks and "special" toys. Toys I bought just for our plane trip, long car rides, and church. Toys that should be fun and novel, and most importantly, quiet.
I get us both dressed in dresses. Straighten my hair, put a little mascara and lip gloss on, and thank Matthew for taking care of the diaper change. We get in the car, I think plenty early, but as I pull out of the driveway, the clock says we are barely on time. Barely on time if I want to stop along the way for my weekly treat at McDonald's, that is. We drive across town, 19 miles, 35 minutes. There is a congregation just down the road from us, but when I visited there initially, it just didn't feel right, so we make the longer trek.
We walk in to a warm greeting, take our bulletin, and as I try to steer us to the sanctuary, she makes a beeline to the nursery. There are lots of toys there, including a Toy Story cruiser that she loves to ride on. I know I'm not going to get her off of it without a full blown tantrum, so I figure she can just ride it out to the sanctuary and then back and forth in the pew. As we're halfway there, I notice it has a lot of buttons. I press a couple of them, hoping they don't make noise, and I don't hear anything. I realize I've lost my bulletin in the two minutes since I got it, so stop and ask for another one.
We find a pew right as announcements are starting. During Joys and Concerns, she presses the buttons on the cruiser, and the batteries magically bring Woody and Buzz Lightyear to life. I whisper to her to not touch those places and hope the ladies in the pews in front and behind us like kids. By the second hymn, she has escaped from our pew three times, telling me "Bye Bye" each time. I let her get a little ways away each time, hoping she'll come back on her own, but ultimately I run up the center aisle and stop her before she reaches the rostrum each time.
She views Children's Time, which this congregation has every week, as a free range opportunity and starts by scooting back and forth on the steps, but ultimately just wants to run through all the pews. Sometimes she pets the other kids on the head. She starts screaming so I decide it's time to step out for a diaper change anyway. A teenage girl tells me she would gladly take her to the nursery and I tell her when we get back I'll consider it.
The diaper change acts as a reset, and she's content to eat snacks and play with her baby and stickers for quite some time. The little baggie I brought of Cheerios holds up well, until she decides it's more fun to dump them all out. I watch it happen, thinking that Cheerios aren't hard to clean up, forgetting about the cereal dust at the bottom of the bag. The pews are upholstered, not just plain wood. We're almost through the sermon, so I pick them all up and let her dump them out again.
We walk up for communion, and she wants to bring the granola bar she is eating, so I carry that, too, thinking then she won't be jealous when I don't let her have any bread or grape juice. Back at the pew, she empties out my wallet and starts playing with my keys. She likes putting a dollar in the offertory plate, but accidentally tips the whole plate out of the usher's hands. I'm pretty sure we didn't end up stealing anything.
After the service ends, I thank the girl that offered to take her out. She assures me that her offer stands any time, so I make a mental note that it might be a good idea in another month or so. I chat with people around me as I clean up the stickers, slinky, doll, bottle, and Cheerio dust as best I can. We return the cruiser to the nursery and go back for our bag and coat, checking that the pew looks presentable again. A nice older gentleman tells me where a group of people are meeting for lunch, but I decline yet again, because we're already pushing against nap time.
She falls asleep on the way home. The 10 minute nap ruins all chance of another for the day, even though we try.
Each week I ask myself if it's worth it. If I get anything out of the service amidst worrying if she's being too loud, stepping out to the nursery, and helping her play with stickers. If she even knows what we're doing. If the loss of two hours sleep from her nap can be recovered. And each week I decide to go again. Because I need to meet people in our new town. Because I want her to see an example of faith. Because although I don't actually know these people yet, I figure they're like the people I grew up with and they like hearing children in church because that means the congregation is thriving. Because days blend together sometimes but if I know when Sunday is, I feel more grounded for the rest of the week. Because it's fun to see her confidence as she explores a new place and gets familiar with it. She reminds me that there's no reason to be afraid when you're surrounded by a community.
I get us both dressed in dresses. Straighten my hair, put a little mascara and lip gloss on, and thank Matthew for taking care of the diaper change. We get in the car, I think plenty early, but as I pull out of the driveway, the clock says we are barely on time. Barely on time if I want to stop along the way for my weekly treat at McDonald's, that is. We drive across town, 19 miles, 35 minutes. There is a congregation just down the road from us, but when I visited there initially, it just didn't feel right, so we make the longer trek.
We walk in to a warm greeting, take our bulletin, and as I try to steer us to the sanctuary, she makes a beeline to the nursery. There are lots of toys there, including a Toy Story cruiser that she loves to ride on. I know I'm not going to get her off of it without a full blown tantrum, so I figure she can just ride it out to the sanctuary and then back and forth in the pew. As we're halfway there, I notice it has a lot of buttons. I press a couple of them, hoping they don't make noise, and I don't hear anything. I realize I've lost my bulletin in the two minutes since I got it, so stop and ask for another one.
We find a pew right as announcements are starting. During Joys and Concerns, she presses the buttons on the cruiser, and the batteries magically bring Woody and Buzz Lightyear to life. I whisper to her to not touch those places and hope the ladies in the pews in front and behind us like kids. By the second hymn, she has escaped from our pew three times, telling me "Bye Bye" each time. I let her get a little ways away each time, hoping she'll come back on her own, but ultimately I run up the center aisle and stop her before she reaches the rostrum each time.
She views Children's Time, which this congregation has every week, as a free range opportunity and starts by scooting back and forth on the steps, but ultimately just wants to run through all the pews. Sometimes she pets the other kids on the head. She starts screaming so I decide it's time to step out for a diaper change anyway. A teenage girl tells me she would gladly take her to the nursery and I tell her when we get back I'll consider it.
The diaper change acts as a reset, and she's content to eat snacks and play with her baby and stickers for quite some time. The little baggie I brought of Cheerios holds up well, until she decides it's more fun to dump them all out. I watch it happen, thinking that Cheerios aren't hard to clean up, forgetting about the cereal dust at the bottom of the bag. The pews are upholstered, not just plain wood. We're almost through the sermon, so I pick them all up and let her dump them out again.
We walk up for communion, and she wants to bring the granola bar she is eating, so I carry that, too, thinking then she won't be jealous when I don't let her have any bread or grape juice. Back at the pew, she empties out my wallet and starts playing with my keys. She likes putting a dollar in the offertory plate, but accidentally tips the whole plate out of the usher's hands. I'm pretty sure we didn't end up stealing anything.
After the service ends, I thank the girl that offered to take her out. She assures me that her offer stands any time, so I make a mental note that it might be a good idea in another month or so. I chat with people around me as I clean up the stickers, slinky, doll, bottle, and Cheerio dust as best I can. We return the cruiser to the nursery and go back for our bag and coat, checking that the pew looks presentable again. A nice older gentleman tells me where a group of people are meeting for lunch, but I decline yet again, because we're already pushing against nap time.
She falls asleep on the way home. The 10 minute nap ruins all chance of another for the day, even though we try.
Each week I ask myself if it's worth it. If I get anything out of the service amidst worrying if she's being too loud, stepping out to the nursery, and helping her play with stickers. If she even knows what we're doing. If the loss of two hours sleep from her nap can be recovered. And each week I decide to go again. Because I need to meet people in our new town. Because I want her to see an example of faith. Because although I don't actually know these people yet, I figure they're like the people I grew up with and they like hearing children in church because that means the congregation is thriving. Because days blend together sometimes but if I know when Sunday is, I feel more grounded for the rest of the week. Because it's fun to see her confidence as she explores a new place and gets familiar with it. She reminds me that there's no reason to be afraid when you're surrounded by a community.
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