Get This Kid a Godparent

Note: My blog is sick. It feels like crap. Pardon it's appearance. Send chicken soup.

When I got married years ago, to a (gasp!) Presbyterian in a (gasp!) Presbyterian church, I promised my devout Catholic mother that one day, when I had children, I would baptize them Catholic. I grew up Catholic, went to Catholic grade school and high school and sit here today, a “lapsed” Catholic. I don’t go to mass every Sunday. Hell, I don’t even get there on Easter Sunday, mostly because I remember mass around Easter being extra long and boring. And I’ve still got the patience of a 3rd grader, so nothing has probably changed in that department. Sure I don’t go to confession, nor do I receive communion, but when it comes down to it besides that pesky 4th commandment about honoring the Sabbath, I more or less follow along. Some people probably wouldn’t be cool with me picking and choosing the aspects of the Catholic church that I want to get behind. But that’s the great thing about religion, I can do whatever I want!

So now that the birth of Blinky is quickly impending, I had to face the promise I made to my mom about baptism. First, I had to clear it with the ol’ Presby in the house. I always *thought* he was okay with doing it but I’m not sure I ever really asked him outright. However, since he is about a “good” Presby as I am Catholic, the decision was not that hard. We would, if we could, baptize our kiddo Catholic. Enter mom, stage left, doing leaps and bounds, praising Jesus. Her future favorite grandchild would not be a heathen.

First though, I had to join a church. I was really worried they’d take issue with the heathen husband and the heathen marriage. Would they even let us in? Would they dunk our baby in that baptismal font? I asked every Catholic I knew, before actually calling our parish. Everyone had a different story/opinion. Apparently, whether or not this situation would “be cool” is up to the parish and its pastor. There doesn’t seem to be a faith-wide hard and fast rule on this kind of thing. So I finally bucked up and called my parish. Offfff course, the nicest ladies answer the phone. I don’t think you can work at a church and not be the nicest ladies. They assured me that our heathen-ism (not hedonism, ya freaks) would not be a roadblock. All I had to do was stop in and sign a few papers. So off I went. There I met the nice ladies in person, who once again assured me that baptism of our half Presby-half Cath kid wouldn’t be a problem. Oh! And here are some donation envelopes for you and your husband. We’ll have more sent to your house!

Annnnnndd there it was folks, the Catholic church that I remembered. As long as that donation envelope shows up in the ol’ collection basket each Sunday, they’ll baptize your mistress’ Wiccan dog. No problemo.

So a few days later, I get a call from the parish deacon, who is one of those guys who has a corny joke for every situation. He explained that they only hold 4 baptisms per Sunday so that he “doesn’t have to whip out the fire hose”. Hardy har har.

But the fun part of baptism is selecting godparents. In my family, godparents were one of your eight million aunts and uncles. The relationship was less about raising you in the faith and more about remembering your birthday and maintaining a special little relationship with them. And this is okay with me.

However, in the past few years, I’ve seen godparents fall out of their godchild’s life with no regret, which makes me pretty sad. I know kids whose parents chose their friends and family members, only to have them lose touch or fall into a rift. So I made sure that with the people we chose, there was the slimmest possibility possible of this ever happening. I had to be sure that the guy and girl we chose would always be around. So for Blinky’s godmother, the logical choice was my best friend Kelly. While she’s not lining up outside the confessional every Saturday with her rosary, she’s got a heart that never stops giving and has plenty to teach our kiddo. The godfather will be my cousin Chris, who is a year younger than me, and coincidentally enough, Kelly’s senior prom date. He’s always been the little brother I never had and when I asked him to be the godfather this past weekend, he teared up and told me he’d be honored. If that doesn’t tell you that you made the right decision, nothing will.