Bit of a boob in church

This morning is our second stab at attending Sunday worship since Microtoes was born. I’ve always been a church goer, albeit with wavering regularity, and DearDaddy dutifully comes along with me. It’s actually proven quite a handy way of keeping Tinytoes entertained on long Sunday mornings, which begin so much earlier than they used to.

Embarrassingly, it’s also tended to be Tinytoes entertaining the congregation at our local village church, which is almost entirely made up of rather elderly parishioners. They coo and chuckle at her as she grins away, popping up from behind the pews during silent prayer or wandering out into the middle of the church halfway through the sermon. 

With a very young baby in tow now too, I am slightly wary of the dynamics of keeping Tinytoes in check and making sure Microtoes is fed and in a clean nappy (both of which needing doing at a fairly astonishing frequency). Bearing in mind we are not only on public display but in a church, I am apprehensive about how it will all work out.

Two weeks ago, it had all gone horribly wrong.

It had been a ‘goodbye service’ for the Canon at the church in the town I grew up in. Mircotoes was only four weeks old and I was nervous for all the above reasons. Things didn’t get off to a great start when I got the time wrong and we arrived at 9.30am instead of 10am. As more and more people filed in, we became squashed in at the back of the building next to my old headmaster, of all people, who was now a reverend at the church.

Towards the end of the two hour service Tinytoes began to get increasingly tired and hungry and thought it would be fun to squirt her fruit sachet all over her clean outfit, the floor and DearDaddy. At that exact time, Microtoes began to cry for a feed. I’m shy at breastfeeding at the best of times, let alone in a place of worship and sitting next to my former headmaster. Luckily I was not only wearing a very discrete nursing top, but I had taken the precaution of draping a wide scarf over my shoulder just in case.

I grabbed a handful of baby wipes to give to DearDaddy and self-consciously picked up Mircotoes. My dismay at seeing DearDaddy shoving a wodge of babywipes dripping in sticky goo into my former headmaster’s outstretched hands, was counterbalanced by the fact that the fruit sachet incident had ensured there was enough distraction going on for me to safely breastfeed without anyone noticing. Or so I thought.

Towards the end of the feed I asked DearDaddy if he could take Microtoes so I could use my scarf as a shield while I carefully repositioned my breast pad and covered my modesty. It was the end of the service and the Canon and all the clerics were processing in our direction towards the back of the church. To my horror, as DearDaddy lifted Microtoes he also managed to scoop up my scarf with her, taking it clean away from my body! I was left completely exposed and mortified, too embarrassed even to see who had seen.

So it wasn’t without a certain amount of trepidation that we decide to visit the church in our village. But, as it happens, this morning could not have gone more smoothly. Apart from the fact we bring our babies and not our pets.. It turns out the main church service has been relocated to a neighbouring village church, while our local village church is holding an outdoor service of worship for pets (much to the amusement of DearDaddy: the word ‘pet’ means ‘fart’ in Catalan.)

Tinytoes is delighted as she can scramble around on the chairs outside and it doesn’t matter if she shouts because there are a lot of animals making a lot of noise. Disappointingly they are all dogs. I’d hoped there would be horses, goats, sheep and pigs like the episode with the animal service on the Vicar of Dibley. Tinytoes doesn’t seem to mind and happily shouts “woofwoof, woofwoof”, at sporadic intervals which blend in with the yapping dogs. The icing on the cake for her, however, was when the vicar blesses her beloved Winnie the Pooh; our substitute pet.

And, as for Microtoes, she sleeps the entire way through.