The Baptism

I have a secret, one of those secrets that you can never tell my mother. It's a religious secret, and up till now, I've never told my family. The time has come to confess, which is very much in line with the secret.

My ex-husband, my babies daddy, is Catholic, and he was considered a little bit of a rebel when he married a Jew. He is the youngest son of six brothers and sisters, and his parents have been married for almost sixty years. I know this because I was at their fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration, along with Ken's 102 year old grandfather. How often does a father get to go to his son's fiftieth wedding party?

Anyoldasdirt, they are a huge, devout, go to mass on Sunday Catholic family. They are also a very close family, and socialize mostly with each other. They're part of the reason I married Ken, I loved his family, and wanted that relationship for my kids. I wanted that for me.

There's a certain amount of romance that accompanies the birth of your first child. Ken and I were thick as thieves, like two vagabonds that had been mistaken for responsible adults. We were two best friends going to boot camp, baby boot camp. Everything we did, including naming the baby, had to be a joint decision.

During this time of romantic democracy, we agreed that we would raise our children with the utmost sensitivity towards each others cultural backgrounds. Being Catholic and Jewish is a lot more alike than you would think, just opposite ends of the same spectrum. Both are as much cultures as they are religions.

For his family, that meant having the baby baptized. "Look at it this way," I rationalized to myself "if it turns out that the Christians were right, the baby would have his bases covered." What's not to love? So I went with Ken to "get your baby baptized" school at our local Catholic church, St. James of the Valley, which happens to be almost right next store to our local Jewish temple, Valley Temple.

It was an odd experience. We had to go to three one hour sessions, and it was like religious therapy. They wanted to know exactly what my commitment was to raising my children Catholic. Frankly, my commitment was very little, I just wanted to fit in with the in-laws. To this day I'm wondering if anyone has ever flunked and been denied. Would the Catholics allow the soul of an innocent baby to burn in hell just because his parents were a mess? Let's just say I did my best to say all the right things.

When the big Sunday arrived, the entire Ken dynasty met us at the church for the baby's big dip. He wore a beautiful little dress that every family member before him had worn. As we walked up to the alter, holding the baby, I prayed to God not to strike me dead or ever let my mother find out that I did this.

Unfortunately, the priest at the "get your baby baptized" school didn't tell me exactly what happens in a Baptism, and I was too ignorant to ask. We get up to the alter, and all I can think of is the Baptism scene at the end of "The Godfather".

The priest looks at me and says "What is it that you want for this child?", and I have no idea what the correct answer is.

So, I'm standing there, thinking, "What would Don Corleone say?" and I tell the priest "That he always be happy and healthy?" sort of more of a question than an answer.

The priest says "Well, while all that's very nice, how about a Baptism?" Like a deer frozen in headlights, still waiting for God's wrath for even agreeing to this in the first place, I manage to say "Why, yes, a baptism." Somehow, I got out of there alive.

By the time the second baby arrived, the romance was completely gone. I unilaterally named that baby, with no input from the peanut gallery. Then, I informed Ken that while I would be happy to attend a baptism, I couldn't possibly be the driving force behind it.

Needless to say, that second baby never did get baptized, because you can't expect a Jewish girl to make that happen for you twice. So there you have it, and please don't tell my mother.