I remember being in church one Sunday morning when, just as the sermon was beginning, a toddler darted up the main aisle wearing only a T-shirt and a diaper. His pregnant mother chased him, holding a used diaper in her hand, and caught up to him just before he reached the pastor. She quickly apologized, then took her son by the arm and led him to the nursery at the back of the sanctuary.

It’s a memorable incident. It’s especially memorable because I was the pregnant mom chasing her half-dressed child through the church.

Does anyone else feel like parenting is especially hard on Sunday mornings?

Many Sundays, I’ve used up most of my patience for the day by the time we walk into church. I’m short with Walter. He complains and tries to pull away from me as I hang onto his arm, sometimes practically dragging him in. Phoebe is heavy on my other hip and squirming because she wants to get down. My coffee tumbler is stuffed in the outer pocket of the diaper backpack and I can hear it sloshing around as we clumsily make our way in. I hope it doesn’t spill. I don’t want a mess on the backpack, or on myself, or on the kids, and I don’t want to be the person who spilled coffee.

I smile when people greet me. I wonder if they can tell the smile is as strained as the arm that’s trying to hang onto a wiggly baby. I wonder if they heard me snap at my son a moment ago.

We make our way to our pew. If my in-laws got there first, I let them entertain Walter while I set Phoebe down, take off the backpack, and situate my coffee somewhere it will (hopefully) be safe. I offer my son pencils or crayons to color on the children’s bulletin. I take them away again when he starts to color on the back of the pew just to see what I’m going to do about it. I offer my daughter something fun to chew on and hope she stays distracted with toys instead of crawling away under the pew in front of us.

I take Walter up front for the children’s message (even though he’s a little young to really get much out of it.) We go right back to our seats when he decides to push the boundaries of what it means to “sit quietly.” He whines. The baby fusses. I pull snack cups and water bottles out of the backpack. My mother-in-law pulls toys out of her bag.

The pastor gives the sermon. I try to catch a few words here and there while I also try to catch Cheerios and goldfish crackers before they get crushed on the floor.

Phoebe fusses and tries to climb my leg. I pick her up and try to let her nurse, but she’s either not interested or too distracted. Walter whines and kicks the pew and tries to take my coffee tumbler, which I have not touched. He leans against me, jealous for my attention while I’m holding his sister. He complains. My husband takes him out to the lobby so he doesn’t disrupt the service any more. I take the baby to the nursery so she can play.

As I walk towards the nursery at the back of the sanctuary I don’t make eye contact with anyone sitting in the pews. I know they see me. I try not to wonder what they think of me.

She has her hands full. Her kid needs to learn to listen. He needs to hear the word “no.” I remember those days. Finally, she’s taking them out so they won’t be a distraction to everyone. She’s too harsh with her son. He’s just a kid. It’s so good that she brings them to church; some people wouldn’t even try. She needs to get it together. She’s trying. She’s doing her best.

On Sunday mornings, sometimes it seems like there’s no good answer. Faith is important to our family and church is a big part of that. My husband and I want our children to grow up to appreciate the ritual of being around other believers in God’s house, hearing the Word, taking part in the Sacraments. Part of that is bringing them to church on Sundays and helping them learn how to participate in a worship service.

I wonder sometimes if we’re setting them up for failure with our expectations. I worry we’re ruining their relationship with church, as it becomes a time for power struggles, boundary testing, and boundary enforcing. I’m more concerned than I want to be about how others perceive us as young parents with fidgety (sometimes unruly) kids.

Sunday mornings are hard. I tell myself this season won’t last forever. Someday my kids will be older—old enough to sit quietly in the pew without dropping crackers everywhere or blowing raspberries for attention. Maybe I’ll see another young mom chasing her toddler up the aisle or carrying a fussy, squirmy baby back to the nursery. I hope then I can think, “I remember those days,” and offer her an encouraging smile, because I know she’s doing her best.