I was raised in the church. The Methodist church to be precise. Mine was a church-going family right up until the time the preacher ran off with the choir director and both of them were married to other people at the time. Before that, the biggest scandal in our church had been the time one of the ushers absconded with Sunday morning’s haul and blew it all on the crap tables in Vegas. After the pastor and the choir director snuck off, it took great courage to admit to someone in our small town that you were a church-going Methodist. And so, for a while, we became what is known in the trade as “C and E Christians” which meant the only time we went to church was on Christmas and Easter. It got so I’d rather drink Drano than go to Sunday services presided over by our new worst preacher in the business. That’s how shooting pool on Sunday morning at grandpa’s house became a new Sunday morning ritual and how I became a good pool hustler and a terrible Christian.

Prior to the aforementioned incident, my mom taught Sunday school and mimeographed the program for Sunday services, my grandma was the designated soloist and my brother and I were often the acolytes who had to wear long white robes and walk up the center aisle and light the candles that stood on either side of the beautiful cross that had been made by my great-grandfather. I had nightmares every Saturday night that the wick in my long-handled candle lighter would go out before I got my candle lit and my older brother would have to bail me out once again by lighting my candle for me in front of everyone. That’s a lot of pressure to put on a 10-year-old kid.

When we were church goers, the part I liked best was watching babies being baptized. I’ve always loved babies, probably because my wife and I couldn’t have any.

There are only two things I didn’t like about babies: number one, they grow up to be teenagers and number two, the ever-present puke on your shoulder. (My favorite Dave Barry line was that if you ended up with poop on your shoulder you were holding the baby upside down!) While we’re on the subject of poop, I must admit that I have never changed a baby’s diaper in my life, nor do I intend to. I don’t have a clue if you have to change them twice a week or just once. Changing a baby’s diaper is definitely not on my bucket list.

Speaking of babies and church, we’ve all been there when a baby started crying in the middle of the sermon and all eyes would immediately turn to the poor mother and then one of the ushers would escort mother and baby outside because it might wake up those parishioners trying to get some sleep during the sermon.

I hate to brag but I’ve always been good at putting babies to sleep and for that matter, I’m not too bad at putting adults to sleep either, which I might be doing at this very moment. I love holding babies and because I can’t join in the holiday feasts due to my small problem that I can’t digest food, I invariably end up holding someone’s new baby so the exhausted mother can join in the festivities without worrying about her baby much. They trust me to hold their precious baby because I have a long track record of having never once dropped one on its head. That and a little whiskey in its bottle (just kidding) are how I’ve become the all-time greatest DBH (designated baby holder) in my community.

If I do get roped into going to church for a wedding or a funeral, I always try to grab someone’s baby to hold because they serve as the perfect “get outta jail free” card. I’ve only ever had one mother complain about the job I did holding her baby in church. The mother asked me afterward, “What did you do to my poor baby? After you held her she had little bruises on her baby butt?”

“You caught me,” I had to admit. “When our boring preacher wouldn’t shut up, I lightly pinched your baby on her bottom hoping she’d cry and I’d have to be escorted out by the “hushers.”