Our church doesn’t have a crying room. Fr. Michael wanted everyone everywhere. Even the children. Perhaps, especially the children. But when my three were little, ages 6 and 3 and baby Alicia, we stationed ourselves as far back at Holy Angels Church as possible, with easy ninja access out the aisle and through the church doors should any of our precious children grow ornery at Mass.

That, and a purse full of Cheerios, crayons, stickers and board books was my armor against the dreaded reactions of other parishioners to “Loud Children at Church.”

I saw one extended version of this at the 11 a.m. Mass last week. From beginning to end, a certain section of the pews were treated to a small voice squealing, chirping, protesting, calling “Papa” at regular intervals. He did not suffer his big sister’s teasing. Nor did the quiet talking-to from his father have much effect. The experience was amplified by another little boy one pew behind who stood, then sat, fidgety, pulling at his father’s sleeve, then raising his arms up to his mother, then dropping the missalette and crying.

Many people, at the beginning of the service, turned to look at the offending littles. When the noise continued, some in the noise police heaved heavy sighs.

I remember being in the tired shoes of the parent just needing that hour to pray and be still. I remember huffing to myself when a noisy child broke my internal focus, trying hard to pull myself back to the ritual and the songs and the prayers.

And I remember I was a child at Mass once, too. Back then, us six Vicente girls would troop into church, into our regular pew at St. Francis Church, almost always tardy (you try getting six girls and one wife out of the house on a Sunday morning.) But in the way of memory, I only see us quietly following along: genuflect, sit, stand, kneel. Little angels. Right.

By the time I was the parent in the pews, my litany was, “Please just give me an hour,” to try to pray and recollect and feel just like myself and not “Mommommom” or “Honey, what’s for dinner?” I remember pretty much not breathing that whole hour, keyed in to my children’s every move, ready to wield that laser look of death at my progeny if they misbehaved, beseeching the divine that no one would need a diaper change in the interval.

In those days, my purse was always full of Cheerios in Ziploc bags, stickers, crayons, paper and small board books. Of course, my children were always drawn to the colored “Together in Mission” envelopes they found in the pew, on which they would scrawl their names. Forgive me, Father.

My friend Eileen was happy when her baby boy fell asleep on her shoulder his first few months of life. She was horrified to realize when he was a toddler that she had unwittingly trained him to sleep in church. (He doesn’t do that now.)

But she and I, we both kept trying. And one day, I found myself standing in the pew with children I didn’t need to cuddle and sway, or lean over to shush. We were at the other end. And I wonder if my three will return to church on their own someday, an emotional memory of the Glorys and Peace be with you’s and the miracle of it all calling them back.

So these days, I smile when I see the little ones. It’s their church, too.

I want to tap the harried mother and lock-jawed dad at the end of Mass and tell them I was in their place many Sundays, too. My child once delighted in shouting “Amen, alleluia!” like a TV evangelist one second after silence descended on the congregation. He also once asked loudly, “I don’t see any blood!” as he looked over at Fr. Michael and the altar during Consecration. He sounded like a theatregoer about to ask for a refund.

Oh yes, I wrangled children in this place once. But I have no advice, save maybe a stray sticker or two in my purse. And also, this from Dolly Parton to Darryl Hannah in “Steel Magnolia:” “Oh honey, God don’t care which church you go, long as you show up!”

Thanks for showing up. These are the children who will be the Church soon enough. And gosh don’t I miss those days when I had a chubby cheeks to cuddle to my own and little hands to hold. And for a quick second you’re wishing you had those babies in hand again. Save the diaper changes. But the tenderness and wonder of it, knowing other moments (teenagers!) are on the horizon. If you are very very lucky. Every parent’s prayer.