See You Later, Original Sin
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I've never been one for traditions -- so much so that I've been accused of being devoid of sentimentality. I read cards and then throw them away. I purge my daughter's wardrobe regularly, barely taking time for one last sniff and face rub before I toss it in the Goodwill box.
And so a Christening is pushing it for me.
But I've also never been one to deprive someone else out of something they feel strongly about if it means a lot to them and doesn't aversely affect my beliefs or personhood -- the mother/son dance to Celene Dion at my wedding (I nursed in the bathroom with ear plugs) and even allowing my daughter (and now son) to be baptised with holy water (hey, it's water, not turpentine, right?).
I don't believe in original sin, or necessarily in any prayers that are said and any blessings that are made. But I do love the idea of what a Christening, Baptism, Bris, or Dedication represents.
My intention is not to make a mockery of religion by standing there and saying "we do" to questions that involve me raising my child in a religious household. It bothers me, just a bit, to say words that I don't mean or sign the cross when I just don't think it's necessary. But yet, instead of outrightly refusing to go through with the Christening, I dress my little feverish boy in his little white short suit and dip his perfectly round head in a big bowl of water because when you peel away all the words and readings, it's asking us to be good and honest parents to our son. And there's something beautiful and fulfilling to say that out loud.
Today I proclaimed to my son, a little person and not this creature or parasite (a cute size-3 diaper wearing one, of course) who takes up every inch of my existence and can make me frustrated, thankful, and annoyed all in the matter of 5 minutes, that I will do my best to be his best mother. And as I held him over the bowl of water, his sweet face and piercing smile looking up at me, I was reminded of the joy I felt when I found out I was pregnant and stayed pregnant (after two miscarriages) until I saw him in my arms for the first time. And it is that joy that I wanted to share with my friends and family -- through this ritual and his party.
I suppose I don't need to stand up in my Sunday best or buy a vanilla cross cake to remember all that. But putting aside all the Bible verses, smelly oils, and very long prayers, we are celebrating my son's new life. And if this is how we decide to celebrate his "official" presence into our family and our world, then so be it. I may roll my eyes at the formalities, but inside I'm glad that I'm not the only one that's rejoicing over his presence.
And if the Father wants to put in a good word for him, I can't imagine it will hurt. We've got a lot more time to fuck up as parents -- might as well start him off on the right foot.
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