I’ll be the first to admit that Christmas Eve is not my favorite time to attend church. At least, it hasn’t been for the past 10 years. Because every year, we have at least one kid who’s at just the right age to think he’s more worthy of the congregation’s attention than Jesus.

This year was no different.

I’ve heard Catholics comment that the strong smell of incense feels suffocating as they sit through mass. We don’t have incense wafting through our church. But on Christmas Eve, in our pew anyway, what was wafting around was the smell of cologne, otherwise known to our 8-year-olds as “neck spray,” with which they’d covered themselves before leaving the house. So they’d smell good for Santa. Who they were sure would be at church. Because isn’t that what Christmas is all about?

“The Lord be with you,” began the pastor.

“NO!” replied Nina.

“Let us pray,” invited the pastor.

“NO!” replied Nina.

The child had some sort of life-altering epiphany just after the first reading, and was so insistent on sharing it (loudly) that, for the first time in her 20 months of life, I found myself invoking her full name — and she has two middle names, one of which is Ethiopian, so reciting it in its entirety requires real desperation.

She also felt the need to clap whenever anyone sang. Including the segment when the pastor sang, solo, the communion prayers. Which makes perfect sense. Because people clap when Beyonce sings. So why wouldn’t you clap when a pastor sings?

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, the offering plate was passed down our row.

“Wow, there’s a lot of money in there,” noted Henry. “Are those tips?”

Heavenly father, deliver me. And I apologize.

One 5-minute break I got came in the form of Big Daddy Jack, who I saw out of my peripheral vision bouncing up and down as though he were on a pogo stick, only to realize he was on a pogo stick with his sister on his hip.

“Okay, I’m done,” he whispered after 5 minutes. “She’s heavy.”

The other enjoyable portion of the service, for me anyway, was the singing of Christmas carols, most of which I really like. There I was, mid-song, having half-forgotten that I was surrounded by overwhelming neck spray and 20-month-old opinions when what to my wandering eye should appear but Grace, freaking out over the fact that “there is a bad word in this song, Mom!”

“Yes, Grace, it’s another word for ‘donkey’. It’s fine,” I consoled.

“Well, I’m not singing it.”

Which perfectly set the stage for communion.

Grace refuses to take communion because she’s not 21. She’s a rule follower. And I hope she remains one until she’s 42.

Jack and Henry, on the other hand, left the altar questioning whether or not they could have “a whole cup of that stuff” at home. After all, “it’s soooo good.”

They’re not allowed out of the house until they’re 52.

***

Got any church antics that beat these?