Sinning IN Church

Posted on: September 16, 2009


Is it a sin to fantasize about choking your children while sitting in church?


Is that wrong


I mean, truth be told, The Big Guy did, in fact, bring forth His very own son to suffer and to die a horrible death, did he not?  Am I not created in the image of my God?  Post hoc ergo propter hoc:  why can’t I consider the self-same fate for my progeny? 


As a quarterly-Catholic, I was beginning to feel just a wee full-up on sin (no doubt as a result of the vile filth Viv and I have put forth here), and decided to take the famdamily to mass on Sunday evening.  


Now, believe it or not, I used to be devout as a convert.  The worst curse in my VWA was “Oh, my stars!”  We were a “good, church-going young family”.  I even taught in Catholic schools!   We never missed mass.  (Nowadays, we never miss the chance to miss it.)

When the M & Ms were mere bundled babes in arms, church was so easy!  If they started to wail, it was effortless to just plug’em with a pacifier.  Piling on the odd blanket or two tended to muffle and/or stifle their screams sufficiently as I tried to open my heart to The Good News.

At the ages of 3 and 1, however, my sweet cherubs would enter the sanctuary, morph into the Wombat and the Wildcat, and commence to wreak havoc upon the church and upon my nerves and very sanity.  The call of the wooden floor, the beckoning of the long, open pews and the large, captive audience would prove too great a temptation for my two to resist. 

(It was ’round about then that my personality split; Viv, as Athena from Zeus, sprang from my head.  Once Viv entered the picture, all hope of redemption and heaven was lost.) 

From the moment the M & Ms became aware of the other’s presence, they have bantered and bickered from dawn to dusk.  They are incessantly, figuratively and literally, at each other’s throats.  The M & Ms are utterly incapable of getting along for more than a few minutes at a time.  They always want what the other one has.  They absolutely refuse to share; be it toys, toothpaste, chair space or air.  If one farted, she would insist that the other not be permitted to breathe in the foul air, and she would try to fan it back to her own “side”; after all, it was her gas, and it was intended for her pleasure only

One would think, or at the very least hope, that the M & Ms could put aside their petty arguments and misbehavior for one, measly hour of worship.  Not so; instead, they view the vestibule and become drunk with the prospect and power of mischief.

Back in the days of our weekly mass attendance, it became increasingly more difficult to focus on the priest’s homily and the Word as the M & Ms would require physical restraint.  It wasn’t long before I sat through a mass with a black heart; the most impure of thoughts possible running through my mind.  Mass quickly became torture.  It wasn’t long before it was I who required physical restraint.

To vent my frustrations and pent-up anger, when singing some of my favorite hymns, I  impovise my own lyrics, and I don’t give a shit if any of my brethren hear my stray:


We are climbing Jacob’s ladder

(Out of the pit of HELL)

We are climbing Jacob’s ladder

(Soldiers ready; armed to KILL)


And this zippy, little ditty, guaranteed to clinch my Mother of the Year award and to take me one step higher on the stairway to heaven :


This little light of mine,

(Gonna light your hair AFIRE!)

This little light of mine,

(Gonna light your hair AFIRE!)

(Let it BURN, let it BURN, LET IT BURN!!!!!!)


Even the favorite hymn, “On Eagle’s Wings”, fails to move me…unless I envision the majestic bird of prey raising up my children high to the heavens above… and dropping them.

It wasn’t very long until I blocked out completely what was happening at church.  I had my own little ‘sermon’ brewing in my cryptic, caustic mind:


(Jesus Christ!  Get OFF her…I said keep your goddam-$40- prissy-assed-patent leather-Mary-fucking-Janes OUT of your sister’s sonofabitchin’ face!  CHHHRRRRIIIIIIIIST ALMIGHTY!  I can’t even hear the mugginhuffin’ HOMILY!!!!!  And I freakin’ PRAYED for these MONSTERS!  WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING?????!!!!!!!)


And then it wasn’t long before we stopped going to mass altogether.  I’m not sure if it was the fear of committing homicide during the homily or the possibility that I may spontaneously combust the moment the Eucharist touched my tongue.  (And for the record, on the rare occasion that I do go to church, I do not receive unless I’ve endured a 2-hour confession and have done my mile-long penance; I do have some remainder faith within.)

I have such Catholic guilt over not frequently attending mass; I think three parochial vicars have come and gone without my laying eyes upon them.  I have become such a sinner, and I have such a dark, black heart during the mass; my eternal fate is sealed.  I am a hypocrite and blasphemer of the worst kind; I’m headed to Hades in the proverbial handbasket.

And though there are my many, many moments when my inner-Viv rears her ugly, ugly head, and though they drive me bonkers, I  truly do love my children more than my very own life.  Yes, I did pray and pray for my children, and God has blessed me, the least-deserving person on earth, with two amazing (and fun) little girls that I just couldn’t imagine (nor want to live) my life without.  (Although it does cause me to question His ultimate wisdom; how could He possibly entrust me – who should have been court-ordered not to reproduce – with precious children AT ALL?) 

 I adore my babies, and though they may indeed be the spawn of Satan, I could walk through fire for them.

I’m just not willing burst into flame for them. 

Not yet…maybe next Sunday….

2 Responses to "Sinning IN Church"

You’re gonna burn………….

Tell me sumpin’ I don’t already know, pal….

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