Humans are not human by nature. That is to say, we are not humane from the moment of birth. Indeed, there is nothing so completely self-focused and instinctual as a baby. Left completely to our own devices, without the benefit of society, rules, manners, blah blah blah, Homo sapiens remain creatures much more fitted to a scientific classification rather than emotive phrases like "philanthropist" or "mankind." No, we truly are the ultimate Uber Ape without the benefit of moral training of some kind.
Thus it is that I drag my boys to church. Every. Week. Complete with the uniform of white shirt, tie, dress pants, black socks, and shoes. And if I'm really on my game, combed hair and brushed teeth. Many, many Sabbath days pass, however, when I wonder why on earth I bother.
My considerations over the past 22 years:
1. As I stand in the church halls bird-dogging my hyperactive 17 month-old (they don't really come in any other variety), who has been able to walk/run since 9 months-old, for no less that THREE hours, I ponder, yet again, "Wouldn't this be a lot easier at home in my pjs and with a cup of cocoa?"
2. But if I take the easy path and ditch church to let my miniature nuclear power plant roam free at home, will I be setting up a dangerous path for the future? Is this, in fact, the first step on the road to giving up every time the going gets hard? Am I courting disaster by allowing my child's natural behavior to overpower my personal discipline? Am I, in short, creating a burden on society?! WILL MY CHILD BECOME A SERIAL MURDERER IF I GO HOME THIS ONE DAY?!
3. But at what point has exhaustion maybe, possibly, overwhelmed my common sense? Where, in fact, is the light? What was my middle name again? Ooommm . . . chhhoooooccccoooolllaaatttteee . . . oooommmmm . . .
4. As my children partake in the time-honored ritual of beating each other below the general vision line of the congregation (ie: punching each other in the hip and side -- below the top of the pew -- so that no one else can see) are we actually accomplishing anything? Other than honing their stealth attack abilities . . .
5. But it is here, among the tightly controlled, first 75 minutes of worship that my primary weapon of behavioral modification is perfected -- the Death Glare. Here it is my children learn the full power of my wrath should their actions so much as draw one nanosecond of attention to them and away from the speaker. In that 1/168th of the hours of the week, the most stringent behavior correction happens. At no other time will my power be so formidable. For to anger Mother during the absolute silence of the sacrament is to bring down the wrath of generations of Mothers. Do Not Mortify Me This Day.
6. And thus we have the ultimate tool in learning public behavior. Long before I turn my young adult offspring loose on the world, he will have learned that not only is it unacceptable to claim your territory as a male human by walking into someone else's house, beating up the current dominate male and kicking him out the front door, claiming the female as your mate, and eating all the food in the fridge, (think about it -- what if people acted exactly like the majestic lions of the savannah? We generally call that "Crime.") not only is it unacceptable to do any of this, it is unacceptable, nay punishable by Death Glare, to even think about belching, spitting, or farting out loud in public, let alone running into other people's houses and stealing all their stuff. Including wives. And chicken nuggets.
7. At what point, however, are we too ruled by rules? Do we risk reverting to the constipation-inducing rigidity of the 1950s if we fret over every possible slight of public expectation? Who determines public expectation anyway? Why on earth did anyone ever think up such random notions such as "wearing white clothing after Labor Day is unacceptable." WHAT?! Who cares! And why on earth should they have any right to tell me and my beautiful children with all their creative expression of their natural soul what to do? Why should I tether their boundless emotional freedom with the bands of current idiosyncratic dogma?!
8. Because they'll be thrown in jail, that's why. (Not for wearing white after Labor Day. For the stuff in #6. Unless this is 1952 and the Hamptons. Ahem.)
9. But the fact remains that my teen boy is actually SNORING during the service. There is an art to the sabbath day observance of the 15-18 year old boy. They sit, elbows resting on knees, and hang their heads down in such a manner that it looks like the chapel is partially occupied by headless bodies. No other demographic group can do this. Oh sure, every man over 40 is snoring too, but they use the sitting-up-straight-eyes-mostly-closed-mouth-agape posture, developed by years of corporate meetings. But only the elastic ligaments and tendons of a teen boy can produce quite the ability to appear headless AND snore at the same time. Think about that. And it brings me back, yet again, to the thought -- why am I bothering if he's sound asleep anyway?
10. Because in the next moment, his younger brothers' sub-pew squabbling awakes him with snort. He reaches out one long arm and administers two carefully gauged smacks and a Death Glare of his own variety, the kind that says "I'm going to pound you to hamburger when we get home -- and you know I can do it with one eye closed and both legs tied together -- if you don't knock it off right now." Peace, or rather silence (which is an acceptable alternative), ensues and he goes back to snoring. Hmm. Method may not be my first choice, but I'll take it. Older kid has learned the lesson and is now helping to teach the younger kid. Public behavior matters. Private behavior matters. BEHAVIOR matters.
11. And as I stand in the hallways, watching my boundlessly bouncing boy child run amok (who would later grow up to be the snoring pew-enforcer), thinking these deep philosophical thoughts, created and developed by higher education and the intellectual freedom of the 20th & 21st centuries, brought on by years of effort by my parents and women's rights advocates to ensure I had every opportunity available to me, as a modern woman, I hear a sound next to me. It is coming from the car seat by my feet. My infant sits there, smiling with all the pure happiness a 4 month-old can radiate -- which is a lot. His little face contorts, turns a bit red, and then he smiles again. And then I notice that the seat of his carrier is filling with liquid yellow poo. Literally, he is sitting in at least a quart of runny, cottage cheese-ish poo. And he is grinning at me as though he were the brightest star in the sky. (Which he is, of course!)
Time and place, young grasshopper. Time and place. And now we're going home.
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