Reason Number 21: Class Masses

The 21st reason for not crying during your daughter’s senior year of high school is class Masses.  This is obviously a very silly reason to cry because no school child ever desires to see a parent at a school event after about the age of 11 or 12.  In particular, most children do not want parents who have been inadvertently choking up at every single one since 2007.

There is just something about Mass for children that has always gotten to me.  Hearing their sweet little voices lifted in song, watching the readers and ushers so serious and focused, remembering how Jesus loved little children and said the best way to enter heaven was by emulating childlike faith and wonder.  Not crying.

In the last couple of weeks, both of my younger children have read at school Mass.  These Masses occur at 9a on Thursdays which is, of course, wildly convenient for working parents.  Nevertheless, my commitment to my children has always been that if humanly possible, I will make it.  It has always been such a jolt of pure bliss seeing their eager faces watching the door for my arrival, and their relief and joy when I walk in.  This week, I sat behind a dad who showed up a little late (solidarity, my brother) arriving just before the entrance processional.  As he slid into the pew, his young son gratefully bounded in and slid to snuggle into his side and I didn’t cry.  Little kids always want to be close to, physically touching as much as possible, their parents.  My own youngest daughter was tucked against my left side, my young nephew on the left, my youngest son smiling in my direction from the planning class section of the sanctuary.  I didn’t think of my big kids just a few short years ago, relieved and pleased instead of annoyed and pretending not to see me, when I arrived for their school events.  Not crying.

It feels like five minutes ago that I was attending their Masses.  None of my big kids are the sort to sign up for roles at middle school or high school Masses.  None of them have ever expressed a desire for me to attend any in school religious events since elementary school, and since my job is generally very eager to have me available during the work day, I don’t attend.  Not crying.

Lucy happened to mention that this Mass was her “last ever class Mass” and I naturally did not cry.  These are inevitable milestones, and I didn’t cry during her reading, or in the memories of my big girl at her last Mass.  I didn’t cry to remember the rather startling transition I made from 12 years of Catholic schooling, to the very secular life of a college student all those many years ago.  I didn’t cry thinking how deeply my big girl has been marinated in her faith—very much by design—and how starting in just a few short months she will realize how little it will be integrated in her life (unless by her design, God willing) going forward.  My biggest motivation for sending my kids to Catholic school is the integration of faith into their daily lives.  I love that Mass is part of their weekly experience—just not on weekends with us—but in their school lives.  I love that their days and sporting events and competitions all begin with prayer.  I love that there are crucifixes and statues and Bibles in nearly every room they enter when they leave my home during these growing up years.  It is highly unlikely that it will be the same for Grace next year (neither of the schools in her final two options are Catholic).  Not crying.

I don’t believe it is unusual at this point of parenting to look back and wrestle a bit with some regrets and uncertainties.  Was she loved enough?  Did I feed her enough broccoli or too much refined sugar?  Did I show her enough adventure and protect her precious heart enough?  But the deepest fear is the everlasting one—did I put her on the right path to a lifelong relationship with the Divine?  Will she carry her faith forward into her future life?  I deeply, deeply desire for this to be true.  I pray endlessly that it be so.  Not crying.

But, at the end of the day, school Masses are just another inconvenience and interruption to an already insane schedule.  It’s just words on paper that they read with only a rudimentary understanding of what they contain.  It’s just stolen snuggles in a church pew in the middle of a work day to the tune of sweet little voices raised in praise-filled song.  It wasn’t even Grace’s last Class Mass.  It was her sister’s.  Grace wasn’t even there.  She’s not at so many things these days—preparing our hearts for next year when she’ll miss almost everything. It’s just class Mass. I’m not crying.  You’re crying.

Reason Number 20: The Bachelor

The 20^th reason for not crying during your daughter’s senior year is the Bachelor.  The Bachelor has been around for years, in fact, according to Siri, it began the year my senior was born (2002).  It’s a soapy, silly reality TV drama whose appeal I have never quite understood.

Back in the busy, brainless years of raising a pile of babies and toddlers all at once, I was known to very occasionally indulge, but I found it difficult to commit to a standing time each week (back in those prehistoric days when one was required to actually be home every Monday night at seven to stay current on TV shows).  And, anyway, the whole premise always made me uncomfortable—it seemed very anti-feminist AND unchristian to me (the overnight dates make my skin crawl on so many levels).  Recently, however, I have learned just how very widespread the popularity of the Bachelor is, even for deeply Christian speakers/podcasters that I follow and aggressive feminists that I know.  I even heard the other day about a group of nuns who refused to schedule some weekly event (service or Bible study or similar) on Monday nights because it conflicted with their weekly Bachelor party.  Last spring when I spent 80% of my vacation days touring colleges with Grace, the number one answer to “what do you do for fun?” was “we have a weekly Bachelor night.”

In our house, Grace has initiated this ritual.  My goal for this blog is to post every Tuesday, and as of today I am hereby revising that to Fridays so I can join in the family fun on Monday nights.  I still don’t love the Bachelor (last night I was strictly instructed on pain of expulsion that I must completely refrain from commenting on how weird it was for him to make out with 6 to 8 different girls in the course of a single episode).  I still question the moral foundation I am instilling in my children by indulging in their new little habit.  But it is campy, silly fun, and if I’m there with them I can be sure to provide an alternative perspective to the absurd construct of that show.  They greatly appreciate my insight, as you might imagine.

I am absolutely certain that Grace will join whatever group is watching the Bachelor every week next year.  She’ll cuddle up on dorm couches with snacks and a gaggle of girls and groan and gasp and laugh at the antics of the ridiculous individuals on the show.  This year, her 8 year old brother is the most engaged with her.  He knows every character by name, has opinions on their level of drama, and last night insisted that he would only pick the active, athletic ones (which his sisters and I all applaud).  Last night, the dog had already claimed my lap, so Clay climbed unselfconsciously onto his sister’s lap from which place they discussed merits and drawbacks of person after person.  Not crying.

Last night, the cast visited Costa Rica, which we visited as a family last November.  We all sighed collectively over our memories as the lucky Bachelor visited waterfalls and jungles.  We were delighted by shots of toucans and sloths and reminisced about the rainfall and our adventures.  Not crying.

This post will be short and uninspired today, because I am tired after that 3 hour marathon of Bachelor watching last night.  I am also committed to Bachelor parties for the rest of my life—because next year I’ll call my girl and recap cattily, even though it’s not really either of our styles.  Next year she won’t cuddle her brother or discuss the pros and cons of various contestants in the moment.  We won’t debate hair-dos and dresses and tactics as they are happening.  Instead, we’ll try and connect on the phone sometime later that week, and given the complexities of all our collective schedules, it will never quite be the same.  I’m not crying that I’ve inadvertently developed one more thing to miss about my girl next year.  I’m not crying that our chances to develop new rituals and shared interests while living under the same roof are becoming vanishingly small.

It’s just stupid reality TV with quite a questionable premise.  It’s simply three hours (!) of couch time I could surely have spent more productively and sanely.  It’s just the untimely elimination of one of my underdog favorites (Oh, Lexi—nice girls don’t finish first—even if they do look like the Little Mermaid).   It’s just the objectification of women who readily choose it for themselves (I don’t know, disagree with me) and one fairly irritating young man in no way worthy of this sort of attention.  It’s just shrinking hours at home with my girl watching a show I’ve managed to effectively ignore for the better part of 18 years.  I’m not crying, you’re crying.