Karma’s a bitch

Hubby and I were married at St. Pat’s Fallowfield, by my cousin. (It pays to be Irish Catholic around these parts). Part of the deal with getting married in the church is that you have to take this marriage prep course (yes, even if you’ve already been shacked up for 7 years.) While I don’t remember much of the course (except one really bizarre example that had something to do with a husband wanting to golf on Sunday and suggesting Saturday mass and the wife losing it. Moral of the story was that she should get the stick out of her butt. Or that I was glad Bill didn’t golf).

But back to my story. One of the bits that I do remember is that there was a one night where the priest came to talk to us (the course was given by a couple from the church, I’m sure they’d been married less time than we’d been together, but I digress) and part of the discussion got around to having children (because we know that’s what all good Catholics do) and how there was this saint who, if you prayed to her would help if you were having problems conceiving.

In my (semi) youthful arrogance I dismissed the story and have forgotten the name*, not only because I didn’t believe that praying to a saint would do anything, but also because I was sure that we would just start having kids once we wanted them. (Have I ever mentioned that I always wanted 6 kids?). I’m sure I even scoffed at the idea that I’d need some sort of outside intervention.

That’ll teach me now won’t it?

 

 

*I can only assume that it was St. Rita, patron saint of infertiles and hopeless cases. (How charming).