Bless Us, Oh Lord

And the more things are changing, the more they stay the same.

To wit, I give you RES. Better known as CCD. Better known as hell for school aged children whose parents have chosen to separate church and state.

On an ordinary day, RES is an oppressive spoon-fed plate of criticism disguised as the teachings of piety and devoutness led by the Royal Order of Sanctimony.

When you have a child making a sacrament, it is Super Sized. And bitter and congealed and crawling with maggots.

My daughter is making the sacrament of Confirmation this year. It is a momentous occasion – one that is serious and joyous all at once. It is when we are truly considered adult witnesses to the Catholic Church. And it is fraught with all manner of hoops of flame for parent and child to jump through.

First up, the Parents Meeting.

This is where we sit all together at some inconvenient hour (not when our children are in RES class, which is borrowed time to begin with, but some additional time, perhaps as a test of our resolve) and learn of all the commitments we are in store for in the coming months.

Our children’s sponsors have already been harassed for a letter of eligibility from their home parishes. And of course, have had to provide a letter to their Confirmandi. A letter that they were asked to write through a note sent home in the RES folder which was supposed to be retrieved by the diligent RES parent, and forwarded by some means to the sponsor, who is then supposed to just know what to do. Oh, and as organized as always, there is no mention of a deadline, just routine harassment that it is going to be late if you don’t write it RIGHT NOW.

On this particular Thursday night, which, incidentally, clashed with Game 2 of the baseball post-season for my favorite hometown team, I rushed home from work, prepared a quick dinner, threw in a load of laundry, baked some muffins for the weekend, ironed an outfit for the next day, ran the vacuum through the bedrooms while the floors were still uncluttered, and then strode out the door, pen and tablet in hand. Hating having to go, but optimistic about the possibilities.

At a minimum, I’d need to learn what color robes the kids will be wearing this year. Of course, if it’s changed since your last family Confirmation and you’d like your child to wear the robe you already have, instead of spending $18 for a new one, you are welcome to do that. So what if the robes are red this year, and your kid is wearing white. Why not also tape a sign on the back that reads “My parents could not care less about this gig.”

I enter the gym with another lady who is rushing to beat the bell. We stop to get our children’s folders. This is how they will know we attended. Only the wicked parents’ folders remain on the table when the evening is through.

I am then greeted by Mrs. Marley – the nut that has been terrorizing 6th graders and humiliating them into learning the gifts of the Holy Spirit for decades.

She is wide eyed and reaches out to touch the sleeve of the outfit I wore to work. At first I think she’s admiring it. It is a suede leopard print with turquoise lining and piping. Fabulous. But no. She is wildly inquiring why I am so dressed up.

What?

I look at her like she is insane (and she might be, who knows) and tell her flatly, “Because this is what I wore to work.”

She seems genuinely surprised by the novelty of the concept. Why? Not everyone walks around all day in their sweatpants and appliquéd Halloween cardigan and Crocs, lady!

I remove a chair from the stack by the wall and take a seat in the back where I can text away if I am bored beyond redemption.

I had no idea how bad it could get.