Monday, December 25, 2006
Praise and Joy of Sugar Cubes
The holidays are a time for family, giving and comprimise... Right? I was determined not to write a Christmas entry because EVERYONE writes one, but it's just too hard to ignore. I'm not going to complain about the malls or traffic or wrapping presents. I'm not going to complain at all actaually. It's just that sometimes things hit me in such a way I can't not write about them.
So I was brought up very Catholic. My father was a deacon and my mom has gone to church every Sunday of her entire life. I have long ago stopped going for reasons I don't mind talking about but would rather not get into any argument about with anyone about. So don't try bitch!!! Haha... So I'm trying not to be a rebellious teenager anymore and agreed to go with my Mom to Mass on Christmas just purely to make her happy. Thank god (I'm not using that word in vain - I swear!) lucky for me Christmas falls on a Monday so not only does my Mom have to go to Church on Sunday but Monday also!! And like any good Mom she makes me feel very guilty for making her go alone. So like the good daughter I am I reluctantly agree to go to Church two days in a row. Holy shit... Again - not using holy in vain.
So we enter into this beautiful, ornate, very Italian church and sit down. All is well and many strange and unusual memories come flooding back but one takes over that occupies my mind almost the whole time. There is this little boy and girl sitting in front of us. Trying to sit quietly but starts to wiggle around about 15mins into the ceremony.
Flash back. Me. About 5 years old. In a new red and black velvet dress my grandmother bought for me. Bow in my hair with white tights and little red hearts on them.
In my head is this new song I learned in school that I was so excited about to sing to my parents. So in order to not forget the song I decided it would be wise to not sing or say any of the prayers. I would stare at the pew, possibly scrape off some of the varnish and trace the lines in the wood with my finger all the while singing in my head, "Cookaberra sings in the old gum tree, eating all the gum drops he can see..." (god this sounding like a freaking scary Poltergeist movie) Anyway, I would start squirming and all of a sudden my father would put his hand on my leg to keep me from moving but also would give me a nice little painful squeeze right above my knee. I would straighten up and sit very still for the rest of the time but still not singing.
FINALLY church is over and we get to go to coffee hour where I can eat pastries and sugar cubes but on the walk over to the hall my father asks me why I wasn't singing or saying any of the prayers. Of course my answer is that I was trying to memorize a song I learned at school so that I could show them. But obviously that was not the right answer and of course I got reprimanded. Nothing really bad happened from this memory. It was just so vivid and those little kids in front of me today at church reminded me so much of my brother and I that I felt compelled to write about it.
So maybe when you take your kids to church you should ask them if they have any thing they want to tell you before you go inside because God doesn't like a squirmy kid who doesn't sing and praise the lord like a good Van Trap family member would.
Whiskers on Kittens anyone???
SIC Erica (stuck in childhood - for those of you who are not down with the lingo I roll with)
Oh - and Merry Christmas or whatever you celebrate. :)