Today was the Solemnity of the Assumption, a holy day for us. We
went to the 9 a.m. Mass at the chapel of a local nursing home run by
Carmelite sisters. The kids and I sat in the last row, but the boy grew
too noisy, and I had to take the two little ones out to the lobby. By
"too noisy" I mean he’s in this phase where his favorite favorite thing
is to ruff-ruff like a puppy. There we were in this tiny little chapel
full of nuns and elderly people, and my son was barking. During the
homily. Embarrassing much? You could say that.

So I spent the rest of Mass in the lobby, my cheeks burning, trying
to keep the barking to a whisper. Trouble is, Wonderboy can’t HEAR a
whisper. This has a somewhat limiting effect upon his desire to
vocalize sotto voce. I was kicking myself for not getting the
crew up and out early enough to make the 8 a.m. Mass at our own parish,
which has a soundproofed cry room.

When Mass was over, the priest, an elderly fellow himself, walked
straight through the chapel doors to the lobby where I was standing. He
smiled at us, shook my hand, admired the beautiful children. I
apologized for Wonderboy’s noise.

The priest held a hand to his ear.

"Eh? What’s that?" he shouted, in the unmistakable tones of the hard-of-hearing.

It is impossible for me to convey the deliciousness of that moment.
In an instant, my mortification was gone. Of course I still wished that
Wonderboy had kept quiet (he’s been so good during Sunday Mass the last
couple of months—and we sit right near the front of the church, not in
the cry room, which is a rowdy, unpleasant place on a Sunday), but I
realized once again what experience has taught me so many times. We’re
never as great a nuisance as I think we are in situations like this.
Hardly ever is anyone judging us as sternly as I am, behind my flaming
cheeks.

"What’s that you said?" the priest repeated.

I raised my voice, as if I were talking to my semi-deaf son. "I’M SORRY MY LITTLE BOY WAS SO NOISY DURING MASS!"

The priest gave a hearty laugh. "It’s not like I would notice!"

He laid a hand on Wonderboy’s head, gnarled fingers patting the white-blond hair above the blue hearing aids.

"My brother had fourteen children," he said. "Fourteen nieces and nephews, I had. Now those children could make some noise!"

The congregation began to file out: white-haired ladies with
walkers, old men leaning on canes, beaming Carmelite sisters in their
brown habits—every one of them stopping to smile at the children,
ruffle a head of hair, shake a hand. There was no hint of reproof or
censure in anyone’s manner: only warm smiles, friendly greetings, huge
peals of laughter when Wonderboy, God bless him, ruff-ruffed at them.
These good souls seemed universally delighted to see—and yes, even
hear—youngsters in the aisles of their nursing home which, perhaps,
come to think of it, is sometimes all too quiet.