Writing my ticket to hell

I have never made any secret of the fact that I am not a deeply devoted Catholic. A couple of times per month I wake the kids early on a Sunday morning, poking them out of their comforters and threatening them with an eternity down under if they don’t find some reasonably clean clothing and get their butts in gear. Sometimes when the kids are with Matt I will drag myself from my own warm haven of bed and attend mass on my own. I enjoy these excursions and derive a sense of peace from them, it touches me to see the kids in church and acting civilized, but I know I will never, ever be in the running for Catholic of the Year. And this is all right with me. I like my religion in small doses and on my own terms.
This morning was not unlike many other Sunday efforts to reach the pew in the cry room. We were at least 15 minutes late, and as I was shushing the kids as they stomped up the stairs I could see a number of heads turning our way. The cry room, so often empty, packed a full house today. The kids and I had to split up in to two groups just to get a seat. And, of course, once we sat down there was some reshuffling as Cass decided she needed to sit next to me which required Loren to huffily move to the row behind us. Devon simply dug his Lightning McQueen cars out of my bag and started driving them under the pews while he made racing sounds. All was well until Cassidy needed a bathroom break and left without closing the cry room door. This prompted Devon to slip out after her during one of the prayers. I waited until the words were done before I pursued him, not knowing if he followed his sister or headed downstairs in search of the cake and cookies usually reserved for after mass. He wasn’t downstairs so I headed towards the ladies room in a hurry so we could be back in before the Our Father and sign of peace. I threw open the heavy bathroom door until I heard a hard Umph-like thud followed by a wail. Knowing I had made contact with Devon’s forehead, I let out what I thought was a quiet, “Oh, shit!”, and then ran into the bathroom to comfort Devon and his bruising head. A few seconds later Loren popped his head into the ladies room asking if everything was all right. When I gave him a confused look he said, “Well, I figured since everyone in the entire cry room heard you yell ‘Oh shit’ that I should check on you guys. Is everything okay?”
No, everything was not okay. I rarely experience pure mortification, a good thing considering I blunder through most every day making a fool of myself. But to have all those clean, fresh faced family be soiled by my potty mouth? I wanted the bathroom floor to open my up and slide me straight down to hell. We didn’t immediately return to the cry room. The kids and I sat out in the foyer until it was time for communion and then slipped back in. For some reason our crowded pew had cleared out and Devon had plenty of room to play his cars. Nobody offered us a belated offering of peace, nor did they invite us to their tables for after church cake and coffee. I might take a few weeks off from the whole thing before we again show our faces there. Fortunately we have a dark sense of humor in our home, my entire family found the whole incident hilarious and spent the better part of the day mocking me and my sinful mouth.