I know there has got to be some good somewhere in taking a 2 1/2 year old boy to Mass. There just has to be. And yet, I'm on my second 2 1/2 year old boy now, and that good remains completely unobservable. At least in this earthly existence.
Buddy Boy and I have been spending some quality time at the back of the church lately, after his antics force us to flee the pew. I spend our moments back there requiring him to sit quietly on my lap and making the threatiest threats I feel comfortable making, given our locale. He spends those moments attempting to punch statues of Saints and drown himself in the holy water. It's a win-win situation.
This week, a few minutes into Mass, he began chanting, "God made me, God made me, God made me." Which would have been cutely appropriate and all, except that his chant was marked by an ever-rising level of volume, it became more defiant with each repetition, and he can't speak well enough for anyone other than me to understand what he was saying. So, it was just a bunch of escalating shouts of gibberish. Not so cute. But better than the time he lay down, popped open all the snaps of his jon jon, and waved his naked legs in the air to show off his basketball underwear.
Oh, he's a mess. An adorable, hilarious mess. But a mess, nonetheless.