RAISING THREE CHILDREN BY TRIAL AND ERROR

Luky
NEXT MARCH IT WILL BE FIFTY SIX YEARS AGO WHEN I PROUDLY LEFT A MATERNITY HOME FOR THE FIRST TIME WITH MY BABY DAUGHTER.
  Holding the white woollen bundle in my arms, I was utterly rested and full of splendid resolutions concerning the challenge of motherhood awaiting me.
  My husband solicitously steered his two girls in the hospital's Reverend Mother's office, in order to thank her for the excellent care bestowed upon us by herself and her staff.
  She looked up from her work, smiled and said: "Oh dear, there goes the little guinea pig . . ." 
  That was nearly fifty six years ago.

*

Thereafter we went on to have seven children, four boys and three girls. We were still very proud and still very full of good resolutions but how those poor guinea pigs put up with us for so long amazes me.

  Most of the time we still felt as green as we should have felt before they were born.

  If we had we might have been saved from unpleasant shocks.

  As it was, even before we were married my husband and I had held long conversations concerning our future family.

  These usually arose after we had visited friends with young children.

  One of us would say: "No child of mine will ever be allowed to . . ." and then hold forth at length, spurred on by the other.

  Well, we were in for a surprise!

Not only did our children do all the things we had deplored about our friends' children, such as interrupting mother when she is talking to visitors, quietly cleaning up all the biscuits when nobody was watching, opening everybody's bags, fighting with one another and with their friends, pinching other children's toys and establishing a monopoly over the loot and carrying on playing when they were called in to meals, but I had heard people passing hurtful [to me] criticisms on them when they thought I was not listening.

*

To give them the basic foundations of a good Catholic upbringing was the most important thing, I found, and I set about doing this with a lack of knowledge and an excess of zeal.

  When my elder two were still tiny, one of the nuns who had taught me at school told me that, unless parents give their children religious training in the home, there is little their catchism teachers can do with them afterwards.

  I took this remark very much to heart, and for weeks after, whenever I walked out with my push cart, the little one sitting and bigger one standing on the step, any passer-by might catch snatches of sentences like the following: ". . . in the Holy Ghost, the Holy Catholic Church, the . . ."

  Consequently our little daughter at the age of three knew most of the prayers I had learnt.

  One night I proudly called her father to listen to her saying her evening prayers.

  She surpassed my wildest expectations and sailed through the Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be, Act of Contrition and the Creed almost without prompting.

  After we had put her to bed, I faced my husband expectantly, waiting for praise.

  He remained quiet for some moments, obviously searching for words that would not destroy my enthusiasm completely. 

  Then he said hesitantly: "Don't you think you're overdoing it a little?"

  After I had vehemently assured him that I wasn't he went back to his paper unconvinced and I spent the evening wondering if he was right.

*

AFTER some weeks of dogged recital of long prayers I cut down the children's quota considerably, to my husband's patent relief.

  Before their prayers I told them to tell Jesus what had happened during the day.

  Often I had to hide a smile at their remarks.

  Most of them I have forgotten now but my heart went out to my daughter the day she said:

   "Jesus please take this" [clutching at her straight hair] "away and give me lovely curls like Charmaine."

  The time my little son said: "I forgive Mommy for shouting at me today"; however, I was sorely tempted to give him another telling off.

Catherine Nicolette

Ah yes. The family prayers. Mom often told the story that I was most enthusiastic about learning prayers.

  She was slightly nonplussed, however, when I - not yet able to walk - apparently used to recite all the parts of the Mass in a tiny voice as she held me on her lap.
  And I think this was the time they still spoke Latin . . .

  Apparently, it would have been fine for the amused Mass goers. Except I was reciting all the priest's words, and a second ahead of him - every time . . .

*

  Dad was real worried that I would become a religious fanatic. 
  I loved praying, and spent time with Mom discussing the ins and outs of the Church, the Gospels and the latest hits on the Gospel Parade [Miriam Winters 'It's a Long Road to Freedom', anyone?]

*

  I put his fears to rest, however, on two occasions; the first was the time Mom and I had a massive argument about the rosary. 

  I bitterly told her that I didn't mind praying the Rosary as the Church had instituted it.
  It was when all the extra prayers she had added on at the end lasted longer than the Rosary itself, that I drew the line . . .

  We had a slight prayer reduction after that.

*

  On the second occasion, I attended Mass with Dad.
  At age 5 - bored during the sermon - I decided to see if I could do a complete somersault through the front pew. 

  Gloriously, you could. As I emerged from my gymnastics, I caught Dad's eye. 

  I knew I had done something he didn't approve of; I wasn't sure exactly what.

  Once apprised, I never did gymnastics again in Church; but a bit of fun went out of things I must say.

  *

  Well I remember little Charmaine in Sub A, when I was equally little Nicolette in the seat next to her.

  The reason why I prayed so hard for curls was because I - straight hair and freckle-faced - bounced unheralded through the classroom door every time.

  Charmaine - long blonde curls tied in pink ribbons, demure long eyelashes and bonny complexion, was oohed and aahed over by the moms dropping the kids off at the class.

  And by Sister Juan, our Sub A Class teacher. I wanted to be feted too - hence my heartfelt prayer.

  Over the years my prayers were heard. My freckles faded [mostly], and my hair developed a curl [slight]. 

*

The moral of the story?

Don't do gymnastics in Church, remember to pray and don't worry about your hair or freckles - they're what makes you special . . .

It's a Long Road to Freedom
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=txK5ZazkJBU

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