Aten’t dead still.
Much to the annoyance of some – of that I am very sure.
Let us progress.
Tallulah is going in for the further adventures of Catholicism.
This is causing me great woe – not because I think she shouldn’t be Catholic. We are way past that and she is now officially dunkinated and the proud possessor of two rockin’ godparents.
Jesus is her friend.
No, it is because I thought now she had her membership card, things might get a little easier.
But they haven’t.
The next sacrament on our list is confession. They call it something politically correct now like reconciliation or group hug or whatever, but in essence it’s still nuns glaring at you while you kneel on pencils and think about that time you peed in your brother’s tea in 1976.
This would be fine if it were just Tallulah who had to confess and do all the Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been three millennia since my last confession.
But they want me to join in too.
And I am finding that rather a strain, frankly.
I am really very good at church related activities, considering. I do lots of leaping out of laundry baskets and smiling in tights, flicking holy water to the left, flicking holy water to the right, genuflect and release…
…but I think this might finish me off – which, after this week might be a thing devoutly to be wished, but still. It’s rubbish.
Everyone at the church is lovely. Really they are. People are welcoming, and kind and nice and all that. I like them.
But I just feel so wrong about it all, and the fact that everyone is so kind and nice and lovely means that I can’t just yell ‘Oh bugger off! and refuse outright to join in and just sit in the car park sulking and eating biscuits while everyone else tells Jesus how difficult it is juggling jobs and kids and grade three clarinet, and they feel guilty because sometimes they look at their children and think ‘goodness, if only I’d bred dogs’.
I would love, love, love, to take comfort in the bosom of Jesus.
But I can’t.
I have too many issues with the church from a miserable penitential childhood experience of being flogged about the brain with catechisms, to a healthy dose of political rage against the machine when it comes to the amount of atrocious things done to innocent people in the name of religion which I find hard to reconcile with harvest festival and close harmony singing.
And, I am busy.
I mean, stupidly busy.
There are singing lessons, and maths lessons, and mass without kneeling on pencils. There are doctors and dentists and hair dressers and children who want to have tea with other bloody children, even though they see them all day at school. Oscar wants to start Beavers, and he needs swimming lessons, and Tilly has just won through to a Young Tycoons of the Year competition at school and needs to run a business for the next month with two friends and make over £100 in four weeks – which she cannot do alone.
And then there are these lessons, in confessing, which I have to get Tallulah to every week on a Monday night at 6.30 for an hour, and which I also have to attend.
On the same night as other commitments.
Which I could probably sort of juggle, even though it would mean a lot of extra driving and petrol costs.
But even so, there still remains the problem that I do not want to be confessional.
That’s what the blog is for.
I know it’s not about me really. We stay downstairs and the helper guides us through our child’s journey through the sacrament, but it’s still too joiny inny to make me comfortable.
And my only other option is to pull out altogether, in which case Tallulah doesn’t get to continue, because that’s the way they do it and I’m the only one having a bad case of the heebie jeebies about it.
So I feel terrible if I go, and worse if I don’t, and worse that I make my daughter feel worse if I don’t.
The lovely lady who introduced us to the system told us it was there to make us feel relaxed and chilled, and part of God’s family and our journey through the sacraments.
I just feel like running away and hiding under a duvet.
Is this normal?