A little theology of the body

Noah is not even three weeks old, and he has already gone on two road trips. Last weekend, we took him to Toronto to meet his very proud great-grandmother among other relatives. He was as cheerful as could be.

Just this past weekend, we took him to our former Catholic mecca, Barry's Bay. What an angel he was, sleeping soundly in his carseat for what should have felt like a very long drive (it certainly did for me, the recovering c-section recipient, who tends to forget to "take it easy". Oy.).

And of course, he was a star at Our Lady Seat of Wisdom Academy's graduation ceremony. He even got an honourary mention on stage from John Yakabuski as being by far the youngest person in attendance, at the fresh-picked age of 17 days.

What sticks out to me the most from this trip was the graduation Mass. I had hoped to nurse him when we arrived -- prior to Mass -- change his diaper, and even make myself look presentable. Given that we squealed into the church parking lot at 10:55 and the Mass was to begin at 11:00, I wasn't given that privilege.

My poor son immediately starting crying during the opening hymn (which thankfully drowned him out somewhat) because I was unjustly depriving him of his 11sies. So, picking up a large receiving blanket and draping it over my torso, I attempted to nurse him right there in the church pew.

Yes, I am officially "one of those mothers." More on this later.

Noah was NOT happy being covered with a blanket and my jumpiness wasn't making for a very "glowing mother" nursing episode. So I resorted to sticking my pinky in his mouth to keep him soothed (again, "one of those mothers.")

My conscience caught up with me, however, and I knew I had better get this baby fed by the time the homily began. I nervously walked all the way to the front of the church and took him to the bathroom to nurse him with a little more privacy. I should say how funny it is that I was mortified taking him to the bathroom. Anyone familiar with the anonmaly of parishes that is St. Hedwig's would tesify that there are more women wandering back and forth with babies and small children there than there are cheesy felt "celebration" banners in every other parish in the country combined (give or take).

I fed him, trying to be efficient, as I discovered there was a growing line-up behind me of wriggling children waiting to alleviate their bladders. I was embarassed that I hadn't organized a way to feed him before Mass (making me fulfill my daily quotient of "I am the worst mother ever!" woes), upset that I was cutting his feeding time short, and frankly, as bad as it sounds, upset I was missing most of Mass to do this.

Heck, this was the second Mass I've been able to attend since his birth. Didn't I deserve some graces too?! Shouldn't I be able to sit undisturbed and appreciate the beautiful liturgy?

I distractedly contemplated this thought all the way to the consecration. When the priest recited the words, "This is my Body which is given up for you" I had a brief insight into my new role as a mother.


My nursing privilege and responsibility can and should be sacrifice on Noah's behalf. While I might not have the opportunity to sit undisturbed through Mass at all for the next x-number of years, I still have a beautifully simple way to serve God, by using my very body as an instrument of service for my child.

This probably sounds obvious to most of my readers -- seasoned mothering veterans you are. Keep in mind, though, how new I am at this.

It's a delight learning these things!