Sundays loomed over my weekend like a dark, black, scary hole in outer space. I would have that sinking feeling in my stomach, a feeling that I didn’t know at the time was anxiety. A shadow of impending doom that started at my brain and ended at my toes.
On Sundays, we went to CHURCH.
Every. Single. Sunday. We went. I absolutely hated going. It wasn’t actually the act of being in church that I hated, but rather being part of the shit show that is a family with two parents and four children trying to get out the goddamn door every Sunday morning in a respectable manner, happily skipping off to church to get our Jesus on like good little Catholics.
My parents most likely had our best interests in mind when they decided religion was going to be a big part of our lives. Religion and being Catholic in general were meant to be positive forces in our life and sometimes it was. I loved my CCD classes. I liked making the sacraments, my communion dress that my grandmother made was the bomb, and one year my mom even taught CCD. So, it was not all bad. The act of getting up and getting to church by 10am on Sunday mornings though, sucked.
I was probably around 12 or 13 when I really started to hate going to church. When you are 12 and 13 you basically hate everything, including your parents, so, I really don’t feel too badly about this sentiment. Before that, I still was not a big fan, but I sang in the children’s choir and sometimes did the readings, and that was fun. “A reading from the book of Wisdom.”
I was also in the Christmas pageant a few times, my last time being I guess in 7th grade when I threw a fit when I was cast as a donkey or some unglamorous animal because I was one of the shortest children in the pageant. I was literally like, “No, bitches. I am going to be one of heavens beautiful angels because, PRETTY DRESSES AND WINGS!” I will never forget Mrs. Korchinski walking up to me, smooshing my cheeks and lips together, telling me through gritted teeth to stop being a brat, and making me go kneel in a pew. Today she would probably get arrested for that, but you know what? I got to be an angel, so sometimes it’s okay to throw a hissy fit. Donkey Indeed!
The other bad thing about Sundays, is that Jill and I were supposed to go to go to the library and “study” for 3 hours after church and you can imagine that that “after church activity” went over like a big bowl of fucking cherries. We usually went to the mall after our parents dropped us off at the library which probably contributed to the downfall of my high school GPA, but I digress.
By the time we all got in the car to head to the House of Christ, the only religion that was happening was everyone praying that no one killed each other, and my mom screaming Holy Mary Mother of God! But not in a good way. Jill was of course my age, Caitlin was probably 6 years old, and Ryan was 3. So, I’m sure it was a difficult morning for my parents, and I guess now I do admire their dedication, even though I think it’s kind of silly and pointless.
My dad was always SO MAD that my hair was never dry by the time we left the house, and I think I had some type of post nasal drip that was mostly related to anxiety, and he would get even more pissed over my snorkeling and nose blowing that only happened on Sundays. My parents always argued, not to mention getting one lone 3-year-old to do anything at all is like wrangling 20 slippery drunk people into the paddy wagon. Sunday mornings were loud, stressful…dreadful, and someone was always crying.
If I were going to take my family somewhere every single Sunday morning, it would have to be somewhere awesome. And frankly, that place on a Sunday morning doesn’t exist for me. I can barely stand to get everybody breakfast, so loading four kids up in a car all dressed up to pray is basically up there with being cremated alive.
But God Bless my parents, they did it until I turned 18 years old, moved out, and promptly became an atheist!