Children at church, again

A group of us moms took pictures at the playground today, attempting to "recreate" a picture we had done years ago (two kids and two miscarriages later, for me.)  I halfheartedly agreed.  And both photos were posted and tagged to Facebook today to live on cyberspace forever.  

Even my vanity is exhausted these days so I didn't protest the pic, but no, I didn't post them to my timeline.  So since most of you are deprived of these portraits, let me just say: in the old pic, I was sitting up, smiling perkily, and in today's I'm slumped over a bit, a little bigger, a lot more tired.  

Ah the joys of motherhood.  Not that it's not worth it.  It's just so darn hard sometimes.

I'm grateful I'm finding time to write today, especially after a few frustrating days of an idea, a few taps on the keyboard, then MOMMMMEEEE!  I see the dishes suffering as I do this though, and the laundry, and... eh, it will wait for me I'm sure, right? :)

The morning wasn't promising: I went to do a few errands, when loud singing in the van turned to a dispute as to who should sing which part, or which song, or whose turn it was to sing at all... in the commotion, I took a wrong turn.  As I pulled into a random driveway to back up and reverse my trip, my preschooler piped up, "Oh YAY!!!  We are going to somebody's HOUSE!  Oh NO MOM!  WAIT!  I WANT TO GO TO THAT HOWOWOWOSE!!" And I sped away before the poor owners of the driveway could discover which hellions were trying to pay a call.

They are currently loving the bath while I type.  Provided my laptop doesn't get wet, this is all good.   Let's see how far I can go...

I was supposed to post to "Catholic Carnival" yesterday about what my favorite hymn was (yes, I'm a day late and a dollar short but I'm doing this anyway)... It's probably "Adoro te Devote", a prayer by Thomas Aquinas.

Second would probably be "Be Thou my Vision."  In general, I'm a pushover for Irish melodies.  

Unless I'm in church with my children, like I was yesterday.  Then, if I'm being honest and non-liturgically appropriate, I would self-centeredly vote for the most peppy, exciting song about Jesus there is.  Preferably with hand motions.  Anything, anything to hold their attention.

Because I'm tired and overwhelmed, and I'm not the best at church discipline, frankly.  I'm not terrible at it mind you (mine are not the kids you see dancing on pews with animal crackers, but they very well might be the ones processing to the front when I'm not looking, collecting missalettes as they go.) There's plenty of techniques I could implement to prepare them better, which I will hopefully remember to do after I fix the dishwasher and take them to the doctors and come back from swim lessons, you know?  I'm so distracted these days...

St. Josemaria Escriva once said, "The Mass is long because your love is short."  He was wrong in my case.  The Mass is long because my children are loud.  Absurdly loud.  Graced with their father's lungs, every one of them.  And I've really never gotten over how wonderfully quiet it used to be at church and how marvelously humiliating it can be now.  

Case in point yesterday: We had the grave misfortune of going to an evening service.  Which meant that not only were the kids tired, they were also hungry; and not only were they hungry, they were also irritable.  (Note: when I say "kids" here, I am talking about the two that are under 4.  My oldest ones are quiet, good, sane, and helpful at church.  So mothers of all preschoolers: yes, there is hope.  But for now...)  

The moment we walk in during the opening hymn (for us, that's early), the two littles toddle into the pew because I'm not going to _start_ in the crying room, right?  I'm an undying optimist.  After examining the collection of pamphlets, envelopes, prayer books, and chewed gum bits under the seats, my preschooler announces in a stage whisper, "Mommy, I weawwy need to go potty!"

Now here's the thing: she might just be bored and pulling my leg.  But you never know... 

Choice A: Call her bluff, manage the tantrum, and face the possibility of a catastrophe to her almost really clean wardrobe (if you roll up the sleeves she rubbed on the van on the way out and ignore the marker line she drew on her lap in the car.) 

or 

Choice B: Take her to the $&%* potty.  

99 times out of a hundred, I'm going with choice B.  And I'm usually there till the sermon, when I struggle out (no you've washed your hands plenty well, no you can't wash your face again, OH DON'T TOUCH THAT! Okay, we're washing hands just ONE more time, that's enough paper towel, that's enough, THAT'S ENOUGH!!) back to the pew.  

I slide quietly into the seat to a cry of "MOMMY!"  It's gleeful, high-pitched, and makes people smile. And look at me.  As I take back the toddler who has missed me so dreadfully for the past 8 minutes, with the mostly benevolent eyes of the congregation upon me, the dear little thing starts to yank on my shirt, very successfully.  

FYI... Fellow lactating moms of modesty: when you are buying clothing, and try on 20 shirts to find 1 you like... Make sure, before you dare walk out of the fluorescent lighting and mirrored room, that you take the following necessary step: Have ready in your purse a hook, a rope, and a brick.  Attach these together, look at your new-shirted self squarely in the glass, and hang that brick from your collar.  And honey, give it a couple real good yanks.  And then being the honest, fair person that you are: pay for the torn apparel, and also go buy the strongest turtleneck you can find... something that seals at the bottom too ... because then and only then, will you be safe and secure from sudden apparel malfunctions when a toddler wants, in her words, "Noi noi."  

I don't know how she chose that word for nursing--I assume it's the sound she would make if she vocalized chomping--but it's better than some nicknames I've heard...  However if she were at all unclear verbally, her actions spoke volumes.  

I dared not meet the once benevolent stares, and indeed avoid looking at any one else for the entire time, just pretend they aren't staring at me....  I gently pry the continually gripping hands away.  

Choice A.  Find a place you feel comfortable and nurse her.

or

Choice B:  Kid, you are almost two.  Wait till we get home.

10 times out of 10--since this ain't no infant--I go with Choice B.

"AAAAAHHHHHAAAHHH!"  

My toddler is sweet, petite, and introverted.  But she has learned certain techniques very well from her older, overbearing sisters.  Particularly the hopelessly forte wail when one does not get what one wants.

Pulling my shirt up with one hand, pulling her hands away with the other, while carting her under my arm, I awkwardly squeeze by the rest of my family (who all somehow end up on the aisle seats) and make my way to the crying room.  I make what I hope is a reverential bob on my way out.

"Wait for MEEEE!"  My preschooler is tearing down the aisle in pursuit.  Marker stain much more visible than I remembered.  Dirty sleeves waving wildly.

The rest of church time I spend in a pool of children, little bible books, dodging sneezes and coughs, settling tussles between the pro-snack and non-snack kids (mine are non-snack in church), and orchestrating yet another potty visit. When a bell rings, I stop to say, "Look! Jesus!"  And then I turn to see my toddler has crawled onto another kid's lap to steal their cracker.  

I know the years are short though the days are long.  I know there will come a time, again, that I don't feel sheer glee at the words, "Go in peace."  

Thanks be to God. 

Why did ya name this blog "The Lactating Catholic"?

Well, I'm getting "liked"... I appreciate this.  But scanning through some of my likers... uh, I suddenly feel the need to say the following:

Disclaimer: This website is about a Christian mom, who attempts to be humorous and witty about her life and faith.  As in, you have just liked a mommy blog. Be sure to tell all your friends.  

"The Lactating Catholic" was just a catchy way (to me) of saying I'm a mom, who's Catholic, who is nursing (i.e. has a baby/toddler), has a sense of humor, is pro-breastfeeding, and likes the initials "TLC."  That's all, folks.  I am most certainly a Mom gone mild.  Any sense of offense at the perceived outrageousness of this title--and especially any vulgarity being read into it--is absolutely not intentional.  And shame on both camps, really.

"The Lactating Catholic" is by no means meant as a titillating euphemism.  If you have some unhealthy curiosities looking for entertainment, you will likely find the bible to be more interesting.  Employing ploddingly appropriate reserve, I will BORE YOU TO DEATH.  Really. Maybe you'll laugh a little as you die, but you will die of the sheer lack of the skankiness you seek.   I can get positively prudish if I need to be. 

Actually, that's a bit how I looked as a teen, though I did show my face (with continuously downcast and averted eyes).  Let's just say I was raised with the sensibilities of a cloistered religious and leave it at that for now...

Perhaps the best defense of this blog's title?  It is a small attempt, (perhaps misguided, but definitely sincere) to "restore all things in Christ," (Instaurare Omnia in Christo), the motto of my alma mater.

God made us moms with the "superpower" of making food for babies.  That is the primary function of a breast.  This should be recognized and respected as such.

Some have argued that breastfeeding in public is immodest.  And that is stupid.  A woman attempting to feed her child milk is not "intending to display the body as an object of observing."   

Most women are awkwardly trying to be good moms and manage nursing covers, doing something with two hands that it takes eight hands and a couple automatic buttons to do properly.  Kindly avert your eyes and give them a break.  Outside of this blog there is much lactation.

My first nursing experiences were fraught with similar perils.  Having tried a full cover-up cape without success and with great and present fear of suffocating the life I was attempting to sustain, I graduated to a "Priv-a-See" that allowed mom to see baby (thanks Anita!) which worked fantastically other than the fact that it was white with red teddy bears, which was probably a bit more eye-catching than was intended, though not as distracting as other covers, which are intending to attract attention... :S

I was the first person on my side of the family to breastfeed (meaning, yes, I am a product of formula from aluminum cans).  My radical nutritional decision was supported by my being sent to closed rooms to nurse during, say, Christmas parties and plain old dinners.  At one family gathering, after escorting me and baby with our shameful nourishment intentions to a far off, locked bedroom, I was offered me a blanket to cover up with.  Recap: alone, in far away, locked room, with nursing blanket cover up.

Perhaps you see how I was inspired with this title.  

I thought up the name of this blog (with zero courage / intention of using at the time) about a year ago, when a college friend of mine hosted a discussion during National Breastfeeding Week (which it seems was last week... I need to get out from under the rock I seem to be under).  She made the following statement: 

"For World Breastfeeding Week, I thought I would post some pictures of classic paintings and sculpture of the nursing mother and child, something that used to be a very common theme. Just trying to do my little part in disassociating the breast with things perverse and manipulative and associating it again with babies and beautiful domestic scenes of vulnerability and love."  And she then posted examples of classic art, several of which included Mary and baby Jesus.  

The Madonna of the Green Cushion By Andrea Solario (1460–1524)

And some people got all bent out of shape.  But I agree with her. Society has oversexualized everything.  Like really everything.  Nothing is safe from somehow being sexualized these days.  Like I'm sure someone somewhere is turned on by this:

[Wolf whistle]

While flipping through stations a couple weeks ago, I heard: "Listening to 'I Heart Radio' is like fitting into your skinny jeans and having that cute guy check out your butt."  Um, no, it's not. That's ridiculous. And if that's true, ewww... c'mon.  People, we are so much more than our lusts.

This particular fetish involving lactation does a disservice to baby and mom alike, so I'm really a'gin it.  No, I've never attended a "nurse in."  But I get it.

Nursing is for babies.  It can be done discretely, sure; I think that's laudable.  But attempts to shame women out of nursing (and babies do, indeed, at times need to eat in public) gets me mad.  And I'm unpleasant when I'm mad, so this should be avoided at all costs... there's an argument right there.  In sum, if you are still creeped out: google "mammal," get to know yourself, and move on. Fearfully and wonderfully made... 

Back to liking my page, "All are welcome" at the moment, until something really bugs me. Then I will start a lengthy application process in order for you to like me. (How's that for reverse psychology, eh?)  You will only wish you could like me. :)

"Blessed is the womb that bore you and the breasts that nursed you."  Luke 11:27