Well, Sunday started off with a big helping of crazy. During the middle of the homily at Mass, an older gentleman preparing to take up the collection physically pulled me aside and told me that, as a doctor, he doesn’t like seeing my son crawl around on the floor at church. I thanked him for his concern, remembered that Jesus probably wouldn’t go nuclear in the middle of Mass, and turned the other cheek after quickly thinking a few nasty things about the doctor. I was so mad and upset that I was tempted to leave and miss communion and chatting with people in the parish I actually enjoy (and muffins), but I stayed. And I stewed a bit. I mean, there are at least seven other toddlers in various stages of crawling, scooting and walking at church every Sunday, but somehow I am the one who gets scolded by a patronizing, “well-meaning” stranger? We’re Catholic! There is a dedicated area with open pews and carpet designed expressly for parents with small children to occupy during mass. WHY DID THIS MAN FEEL THE NEED TO MANSPLAIN TO ME, AN INTELLIGENT ADULT AND PARENT, THAT HE DIDN’T LIKE TO SEE MY KID CRAWLING ON THE FLOOR. GUESS I SHOULDN’T TAKE HIM TO THE PARK, DAYCARE OR EVER LET HIM RIDE THE BUS. TO THE BUBBLE — THE DOCTOR AT CHURCH SAID SO! And seriously, he didn’t say a peep to any of the other parents, let alone take liberties with their personal space. It’s really hard to be Christlike when asshats like this force me to interact with them.
Also, I was intending to start a Whole30 on Sunday, but I was so angry, I had to eat my feelings and went to town on a bag of tortilla chips. And then the last of the ice cream before bed.