It probably could have been easily predicted that I was destined for trouble when my parents colluded to lie to a Catholic priest in order to have me baptized. Christening under false pretenses is, no doubt, a venial sin at the very least. Because my parents had not been married in the Catholic Church, and because my grandfather called my mother, and then subsequently me, a heathen, they decided they better christen me. This was not such an easy matter for them. When I was six months old they finally were able to get me baptized at St. Stanislaus, the only church in the borough of Queens who was willing to christen the child born of two people who were not even considered married in the eyes of the Church. And while they could have chosen to depart completely from Catholicism (and I truly believe my father would have been all over that), my parents chose to raise my brother and I as Catholics because, truth told, what else did they know?
Because I went to public school, my parents sent me to catechism classes beginning in the first grade. Clearly, one needs an early start to get properly indoctrinated. Once a week, me and all the other Catholic kids left our own school right after lunch in order to attend the nearest Catholic school for lessons, while all the kids who regularly attended the parochial schools had a half day every Wednesday and could be seen at the pizza place and park while we sat in their abandoned classrooms. This weekly schedule of half days lasted all the way through fifth grade and beginning in the sixth grade we attended catechism classes on Monday nights after dinner. This particular situation worked out well for me for two reasons: one - I didn't have to witness all the parochial school kids having fun while we sat in class all afternoon, and two - my cousin Joann and I could sneak cigarettes on the walk from her house to the Catholic school under a cloak of darkness.
In all those years I learned all the things I was supposed to learn in order to become a fully functioning member of the Catholic Church. I memorized prayers, beatitudes and commandments. I made sacraments, attended masses, received ashes, and figured out when to kneel/sit/stand without the aid of clicking dog training tools. I also learned the importance of confession, and the joy that accompanies having unloaded all your misdeeds on a weekly basis and starting all over again. Ah, sweet absolution. Although much information had been passed along to me, nothing that I learned could have quite prepared me for the nuggets of wisdom that my own children would pass on to me from their Catholic preschool experiences.
My son's first Christmas season in Catholic school found him eagerly anticipating the upcoming holiday. School days included all sorts of seasonal art projects and countdowns to gift exchanging (and possibly Advent?). My son returned home from school on one of these December days to inform us that there was a new guy in his class. My husband and I heard somewhere that good parents listen and ask questions of their children, and so after our son telling us for a few days about this new guy, my husband broke down and asked all about him. Enthusiastically, our son told his father that the new guy was a baby. A baby? Yes, a baby who had a birthday coming up. The baby's name was Jesus and his birthday happened to be on Christmas. Pretty cool, huh?
Deciphering pre-school talk is a pretty daunting task, and if you've never been around a four year old, think of an overly talkative, occasionally annoying, drunk friend. When we entered the Easter season, our son was again fairly keyed up. He talked endlessly of guys sleeping behind rocks and rabbits bringing eggs. It was at this time that we were told that our son had solved the mystery of why we celebrate Easter. As it turns out, this guy Jesus (not recognized by him as the same baby who had been in his class in December) had some friends who nailed him to a tree. Then they put him a cave and let him out after a few days. When he came out, there was a party with colored eggs, ham and chocolate. Pretty cool, huh?
Our daughter now attends the same school as her older brother did. This past Christmas season she returned home from school one day wearing a Dora birthday party hat. When asked where she got the hat, she informed us that their was a birthday party at school that day. Whose birthday was it?, we asked her. Jesus. As it turns out, Jesus enjoys a Dora themed birthday party as much as the next guy. Pretty cool, huh? I'm looking forward to her Easter revelations.
My son now attends the local public school and his sister will follow his lead. The indoctrination process in our home ends at the age of five. I highly recommend not correcting the half truths and misunderstandings that come out of the mouths of babes. If nothing else, they will have an interesting worldview and you will be provided with a lot of laughter.
This weeks tip: You need not buy egg dyeing kits in order to do your Easter up right this year. You can use produce that you probably have around your home in order to dye your hardboiled treats, such as: red cabbage juice (for blue), boiled yellow delicious apple peels (for greenish yellow) and red wine for violet.
1 comment:
Very nice Kellianne. It brought back the memory of the first time I was thrown out of Sunday school. It was the Easter season and after going around the table asking each child what they would be giving up for lent I said “lent.” My explana...tion that we were Protestants seemed to fall on deaf Methodist ears. My future was set in motion thought and I would be removed again later for claiming that Dolly Parton had the coat of many colors during bile trivia. I would struggle with organized religion from then on.
I also find great delight and sometimes horror in the things Ian comes home with from preschool. Most recently he wanted to know if Lazarus was a zombie. But hey I can see Jesus digging a Dora party after all his first miracle was the equivalent of a beer run. Take care!
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