We had JJ’s baptism this week, and I have to say, it was lovely.
Back in 2021, my husband had requested our first child be baptised in his hometown of Kells, Co Meath, but due to an extraordinarily long waiting list, we had to park the plan and have it in west Kerry instead.
Yes, it turns out the people of Meath are the holiest in all the land (sorry Cork, you can’t win them all).
And so it was that our second-born was baptised in what was formerly the home county of the Hollywood icon Mr Tayto.
Landing into Meath last weekend, I felt confident I was suitably prepared for the main event, but being a parent means there will invariably always be a spanner thrown into the works.
On Saturday evening, the day before the christening, Fred sent a shiver down my spine by asking if the menswear shop in Kells would be open on Sunday, as this was when he planned to buy his outfit for the big day.
As I reached for a countertop to steady myself, I told him under no uncertain terms that the outfit had to be purchased as soon as possible, in other words, right now.
When Fred muttered something about buying a nice orange jumper for the event, I knew this had the potential to be the biggest fashion fail since fur gilets and accompanied him to the store.
Given that his aesthetic is generally ‘geography teacher on the weekend’, it took me and Paul, the helpful proprietor, to coax him out of the bootleg jeans. Before we knew what was happening, Fred had dropped his pants in the middle of the shop, giving fellow shoppers the full show.
Before you judge my husband, please know that as any ’80s child will tell you, we were often goaded into trying on clothes in the middle of Dunnes Stores because, to quote our mothers: ‘Sure who’d be looking at you?’
The morning itself was a bit of a whirlwind, but by 1pm, I had Fred, the kids, and myself dressed (hastily, of course). Up at the church, the christening was a jam-packed event, given that there were not one, not two, but three babies being baptised on the day.
As the priest gave his sermon, a child aged about six suddenly interrupted.
“Excuse me,” the child piped up.
Nobody was more stunned than the priest, who is probably used to a more captive audience.
“Can I say something?” the child continued.
The priest didn’t bat an eyelid and told him to go right ahead.
“Somebody tried to kill me yesterday,” the child giggled.
I’m not sure if you remember the viral video of Prof Robert Kelly being interviewed on the BBC when his young daughter saunters in, followed by a baby in a baby walker.
His wife swoops in and expertly removes the kids, like a scene out of The Matrix. Well, that is the exact speed at which this child’s mother managed to sprint up to the altar before the young boy said anything else.
We laughed but I started eyeing Ted nervously, waiting for him to assume centre court and dob us as non-Mass attendees.
Thankfully, we were coming to crunch time, and flanked by his godfather (my best friend) and his godmother (our sister-in-law), JJ got dunked.
There was one tricky bit where my husband and I were asked for JJ’s name, and we each gave two different answers, but in our defence, we had little to no time to rehearse beforehand.
Everyone loves a freebie and when it came to holy water time my mother, like myself, was prepared (if your mother isn’t carrying a receptacle at all times, is she even your mother?).
Finally, we managed to bundle all the nieces and nephews together for a group picture by the altar and it was officially party time.
The reception was back in Fred’s parents’ house, and they pulled out all the stops. Hospitality was through the roof, with my brother-in-law Timmy giving JJ a run for his money as the star of the show.
He ran the kitchen with such effortless zen that people praised him in breathless whispers: “Timmy is a saint — would he ever run for local elections?”
I don’t think anyone has courted such universal support since John Paul II had them fan girling in the Phoenix Park in 1979.
The next morning, Fred announced he couldn’t find his coat.
“Somebody must have taken it,” Fred said.
“But who would do that?” Fred’s mother asked.
I postulated that perhaps somebody accidentally, on purpose, mistook it for their own.
“Just goes to show, theft can even happen at a christening,” I tutted before spotting Fred’s coat — on the coat rack.
Fred argued that this was not his coat before finding his wallet in the pocket and having to reluctantly admit that he had, in fact, sent us all on a bit of a wild coat chase.
Safe to say, some of us had celebrated the sacrament a little too hard, but given it is our last christening, we won’t judge too hard.
As I sat into my car, ready to hit the road to Kerry (a mere five-and-a half hours, so a breeze), I took a sip of water, which tasted strange. Looking at the bottle I realised to my horror that it was actually JJ’s holy water, which I’d put in a Volvic bottle.
I’m fairly certain my body water is now 30% blessed, which must surely have me in the running for some kind of sainthood.
