FAMILY LIFE

This was our last First Holy Communion so it had to be just as special, expensive and stressful as all the others

There is a special kind of madness that descends around the time of a First Holy Communion. You may think you are above such things; that your educated cynicism and complete lack of faith will prevent you from succumbing to any kind of religious hysteria. But one minute you are condescendingly telling your wife that there is no need to panic as it’s only her family coming over, and the next you are in some sort of religious trance in the living room, whirling like a Sufi Dervish with Shake N’ Vac in one hand and the hoover in the other, trying to mask the odours of ten thousand meals eaten in front of the TV.

By the time I realised that the madness had taken hold, I was already lost to it, and found myself outside hoovering the patio and starting to contemplate hoovering the lawn — the sort of behaviour that would get one sectioned in less gentle times.

I brought it all on myself; I was the one who said that having the post-service meal in a restaurant was the kind of godless excess that one might have found during the Celtic Tiger, alongside hot tubs, renewing wedding vows, and apartments in Bulgaria. To me, having the post-Communion gathering in some local restaurant was the sort of activity that would see you smote pretty hard in the Old Testament, as the sit-down three-course meal of today is really the golden calf or Tower of Babel of yesteryear.

No, we were going to save loads by having it all in our house, even if it meant we would be up until midnight every night for two weeks before the occasion trying to paint skirting boards and clean skylights. I can safely say that if I could go back, I would just book a table somewhere, pay the money, and not have to lose myself in the widening gyre that is trying to clean a house which is home to two adults, four kids, and a constantly shedding dog.

Technically, the easiest part of the day is the actual religious ceremony itself. The First Holy Communion mass is a kind of Met Gala for the squeezed middle, only instead of the theme being Garden of Time or some other pretentious nonsense, it’s Oh God What Has Happened To My Body.

Our struggles to get our own middles squeezed into some kind of formal wear were compounded by the fact that our little Communicant is shaped like a Mr Potato Head, and we realised early on that making him wear a suit would just make him look like he was heading to the circuit court rather than church, so we tried a few different looks.

My wife bought him a linen jacket and pants which I pointed out made him look like a member of Boyz II Men, so in the end we went with a short-sleeved shirt and chinos, which made him look like Chris Farley in Tommy Boy. But he was comfortable and frankly that was all that mattered. On the steps afterwards he looked like someone who stepped into the rows of little people in suits as a prank, but he was delighted. He was less delighted when he realised that the party back home was really not technically a party, but was rather a load of grown-ups eating salad and talking about world events.

But I am pleased to report that all our hard work in getting the place ready really paid off, mainly because my wife talked everyone through precisely what she had to go through to make the place presentable, while I workshopped my social anxiety by spending the entire day in the kitchen, like one of the great martyrs of the Bible, sacrificing himself for the greater good.

This is our last First Holy Communion so it was worth going out with a bang. The sighs of relief that came when little people headed off to their first day of school are now replaced with something a little more contemplative — moments of quiet sorrow as we realise the youngest is passing through all these rites and rituals, meaning the kids are growing up and we are growing older, or possibly just growing old.

He may not remember much about his First (and our last) Holy Communion, but he will know that it was important to us that it be as special, as expensive, and as stressful as those of his siblings, and that the patio was hoovered to a point of cleanliness that you could eat your salad off it.

‘The First Holy Communion mass is a kind of Met Gala for the squeezed middle’