Yesterday I got baptised.
Anglicanilly, that is. I.e. with a font, oil on my forehead in the sign of the cross, a shell full of water splashed over my head, and a candle.
I got a certificate and I got to keep the candle and if I ever get ordained I’ll need to present the certificate.
I had to record my parents’ full names. I did this, fully. If and when I get married, then, my dad is going to hate me – he usually leaves out a chunk of his full name for reasons which I will spare him the telling to you; now it’s going to go down for posterity.
The service sheet was laid out as if I was a child – so we had to leave out bits and I had to pretend to be my own Sponsor, which was quite fun.
I acknowledge one baptism for the remission of sins.
I feel lovely. It sort of felt like my birthday. And now – and this is weird – I finally feel like my name is my own. Since I was a child I’ve always felt that, having not been christened like all my friends were (and maybe one of them actually said this to me and that’s why I feel it), that my name is not my own, could not be my own until I was christened with it. But now I really am Jennifer Rivers Mohan.
I’ll tell you why they ‘do’ them when they’re babies, though – it’s a darn sight easier to pour water on someone’s forehead if they’re lying down, in the crook of someone’s arm over a font. And if they don’t have hair to get in the way. I had to do a stunning arrangement of my fringe with hairslides. Still, it was just me and the Rev, so.