Little Miss Holy Terror

A while back, we had our little baby terrorist baptized. We figured it couldn't hurt. She got to wear a pretty white dress, we got to hang out with our closest family and friends, and if God smiled down on us and helped the little terror sleep through the night and wreak a tad less havoc, then it was all worth it.


I spent a good portion of my youth quietly suffering through Mass, bored but well behaved because of the divine promise not of heaven but rather donuts afterward. Throughout my teen years, I rebelled and insisted on making my mother rue the day she decided to enroll me in Catholic school. Though fun, I was eventually plagued by the Catholic guilt that inevitably follows no matter how enjoyable giving the middle fingered salute to the religion (and the Catholic school uniform) that I love to hate and, as I got older, begrudgingly hated to love.


And so, for the cosmic and profound reasons stated above, I began the process of attempting to have little Miss Holy Terror baptized.


Those Catholics don't make it easy. First of all, my husband and I weren't married in the Catholic Church. I really wanted to get married by the ocean and I wanted the ceremony to be really short because let's face it, as seriously as one should take marriage, I wanted to zoom through the vows and get straight to the booze. I do, I do, smooch smooch, lawfully wed, let's drink to that. Unfortunately, in my haste to toast to marital bliss, I inadvertently made it difficult to baptize the baby that was but a twinkle in our buzzed eyes.


The Church wanted us to get remarried by the priest. Not only that, they made us attend Mass three times and then attend a class before they would even agree to take our monetary donation that would ensure our daughter's salvation. We went to the mandated Mass, took notes because I was worried that there might be a pop quiz, and eventually were cleared to baptize the mini.


The day of the baptism was beautiful but intimidating because I was convinced that the priest was trying to trick me. First off, he indicated that the parents should sit in the front row. Completely forgetting that I am indeed a parent, I ushered my mom and dad into the front row. The priest raised an eyebrow at me as he questioned whether or not I was the mother of the baby. Oh right. Sometimes I forget that I was not just a gestational carrier, that I am not just keeping the baby terrorist alive until her real mother returns. Sheepishly, I traded places with my mom and took my rightful spot next to my husband as the actual parental units.


He then proceeded to ask what we were asking of the church today. I knew there was going to be a pop quiz! I was not prepared. I started to sweat profusely. My heart raced. I am such a fraud, I am hardly Catholic, I didn't know there was going to be a test, I didn't study...I opened and closed my mouth soundlessly, at a loss for words (which is a rare occurrence for this babbling Brooke) and gave an alarmed look at my husband. He looked at me, worried that perhaps I was having a stroke, and answered the priest.


"We are here to baptize our daughter," he said calmly.


Oh, right. That's what we're here for. Well that was a trick question! Anyone could have been fooled by that. I gathered my composure, sat up straight, and assumed what I thought was the air of a no nonsense mother there to guarantee her child a coveted spot in heaven.


"And what name have you chosen for your child?" the priest asked.


SHIT! I didn't know I was supposed to pick out a NAME! I racked my brain quickly for a nice sounding Catholic name. I should have paid closer attention in my high school religion classes. All that Vacation Bible School wasted. Ruth? Esther? Esther! That's a good one! I opened my mouth to shout my well thought out choice when I heard my sister say slowly -


"Reeeeeaaaaagannn..." with a sidelong glance in my direction.


Wow. The answer was that easy, huh. I just had to tell the priest her real name. Again, what a trick question! That priest was shifty, I am telling you. I quickly regrouped, hoping that God was too busy to read my thoughts, and left the question answering to my husband and sister for the remainder of the ceremony.


So though it wasn't without a hitch, the baby terrorist was upgraded to a Holy Terror and this mama was reminded that I am in serious need of some salvation.