IdleBones

A velly Jelly Christening

Baby Cian Ruairi Jelly was christened last week at Skryne Church, Co Meath, and lo, the little Jelly is now Royal Jelly. Arise Sir CJ!

At least I think that's what went on. I didn't see a sword, or notice the Queen hanging around, but I'm sure that's what happens at these things as I have read it in books; therefore, it must be so. Note to self : must update library on Catholic ceremonies.

The service began in tradition Ball style: We arrived late, sneaking sleeping baby Cian and wide eyed Sophie into the backseats while Dad and the poor lost souls following his car were still doing laps of the wrong church. Sophie, obviously having read up on Catholic ceremony books with some outdated text, decided to witness the whole spectacle of the mass backwards, Latin style, eagerly coveting the toy of a child in the pew behind us. The stragglers eventually turned up and made their way in hushed reverence into the wrong christening parties pews. On the alter, our old parish priest Father Gleeson was berating the faithless for not attending church. A speech probably wasted on the attending parishioners who were, after all, attending, and therefore, probably not the target audience. I felt eyes on me as I sat in a church for the first time since the last family christening. I got new shoes and everything, I offered in meager apology.

By the way, I have no recent picture of Cian, as my camera is rubbish. But I am told, reliably, that the poor wee fella looks like me:

A scary glimpse into the future for young Cian?!? Personally, I don't see it. I think it's more because we both drool when we sleep.

Halfway through the service, baby Cian himself was in need of servicing, and he was handed back to me to take for his first little walk with his Uncle Bones. Out I brought him into the brilliant blue day for his first Journey out alone in Ireland, gurgling happily to be out of the frightening big loud church, only to be treated to a walk around a graveyard. We said hello to all the sleeping people and sang "staying alive". Well, it was the only thing I could think of on the spur of the moment. We even did a little dance. In retrospect, the beach would have been a more seemly site for our first little moment together, but uncles can't be choosers.

Back inside, Cian was happily passed back to Gran just as Great Gran turned up and beckoned me with her finger to outside. On the Alter, farther Gleeson was beginning to think I was the usher, and was eyeing me for the ice-cream tray. Perhaps he fancied a Cornetto?. Out front, an irate taxi driver was busy grumpily off loading my Aunt Marie, complaining that this was Skryne Church and not Rathfeigh Church, where they had sent him originally. I told him he looked wonderful in his inside out tracksuit, and wasn't it a wonderful day for a christening, to which he harrumphed and pulled his bed-head back into the the taxi and roared off to more important matters of state, like going back to bed with a copy of the racing post.

Time came eventually for the head wetting bit. Adam and I sat beside each other, urging Sophie, who was wandering the isles, to go up and bang the large bell at the side of the alter, as we readied ourselves to stand up and announce dinner. Sophie had other ideas more fanciful than ours, however and i was left to irreverently take surreptitious tugs on my bottle of water (River-rock, if your interested. Very nice.). If one is to assert blame for the state of my head at the time, it is to be placed on every one but me, as they had all kept me up passed my bed time the night before. The fact that none of them had been there at the time is irrelevant, and frankly, argumentative m'lord.

Anyway, unaccustomed as I am to long speeches; I didn't bother, and the service was all the better for it. Cian Ruari Jelly was benighted, as was Aishling Bridgit something or other (the other christening), in a storm of camera flashes and god motherly cooings, and we made our way back down the isle, Dad stopping momentarily to admire the Baby Aishling and comment to the worried father on what a grand little fella his baby girl was.

Back at Ball towers, the party was begun. Fathers drank beer, Grandfathers drank wine, Grandmothers drank Shloer, and Uncles regretted bringing the bloody cars with them. Smoked salmon, poached Salmon, cheese on sticks and pasta on forks disappeared into hungry beasts and mums worry of overkill on the caterers part turned into fears of under kill as Adam, Marc and I systematically decimated the buffet table. Sophie decorated her clothes with chocolate, Marc made better use of it by bypassing the middle man and devoured lumps of chocolate cake by the the fist, and Jay reminded us all of how he didn't drink, while topping up his pint glass. Meanwhile, Sophie had turned her attention to her little friend Ciarans new bike in the back garden. Ciaran, being older by several months, and longer of leg, had arrived with new boy bike and stabilisers. On first attempt, Sophie couldn't reach the pedals, but unperturbed, she swung her self to and fro on the saddle while Ciaran complained that it was "his bike".Sophie was reminded that she had to ask Ciarans permission to use his bike. A moment of reflection, then,  plan B, thought Sophie, as she coopted Ciaran into a running race from on end of the garden to the other. For four laps Sophie issued the "go" order and the two pairs of little legs tore up Grandads grass from one end of the garden to the other. Ciarans Longer legs and flapping arms one the race every time, but Sophie was mysteriously unperturbed as Adam and I watched on. On Lap five, the two stood at the bike, as Sophie again shouted "go". Ciaran tore of in breathless excitement while Sophie calmly turned round and got on his bike and tried to make her getaway. Adam and I collapsed in laughter as Ciaran reached his winning post and turned around to see Sophie vainly trying to escape on a bicycle to tall for her little legs. 

The night wore on and little babies were put to sleep. Bigger babies took to the the bottle and compared confirmation suits and dodgy baby photos. Jean rested her head on Adams shoulder and commented on my big lips in my communion photo while I comment told her she had (which she dosen't, but i was stuck) crooked eyes and reminded her that it was an affliction to have one leg shorter than the other two. Marc was reminded of the the fact that the Drogheda united colours in string I have hanging from the rear view mirror of my car was not, as I had told him, a truck horn, but me pressing the horn while tugging the platted piece of string, and was intended to fool Sophie, not her Uncle. Caroline, Ruth and Brain resolved themselves to not getting home early; the perfect excuse for  Ruth and Brain not to take up on their neighbours invitation to a party, and Caroline resolved herself to a weighty hangover the next morning. At 10.30, I begged my leave and went home to leave the others telling stories till the early hours.

And so baby Cian was beatified. Knighted or something. His head has been wetted and he will never remember any of it. But some of us will be able to look back at it and show him the photos and say: Well, neither can we. Suffice to know that while you were in bed, the relevance of this day in your life having gone completely over your head, (literally); we all had a great time.

 Cheers Sir Jelly!

8.5.06 01:15