My son celebrated his First Communion today, and I couldn't be prouder. But I'll be honest. I hit a few snags in the planning. And I almost let the the big day get overshadowed by a lot of little things.

I realized at the last minute there was a problem with my son's shirt and had to drive to Wal-Mart on Sunday at dawn in a thunderstorm. Anyone who knows my feelings about rising at dawn, driving in thunderstorms or shopping for last-minute items will know the stormy weather outside paled in comparison to the mood in the car.

I bought the wrong size nylons, because I never wear nylons but my legs are so white it would have been just plain sinful to show them in church.

Right after Mass began, I realized my cell phone was still in my purse. It's a new phone and I barely know how to operate it. So I held a frantic, whispered dialogue with my daughter, sitting behind us, beseeching her to figure out how to quietly turn it off. She did. I remembered later that the entire Mass was being videotaped, so my stupidity will live on through the digital age.

Then, as I sat watching my son receive communion, I realized that everything above - everything I just wrote - didn't matter. Not one bit. Because that's not why we were there.

I listened to the choir sing "Here I am, Lord," one of my favorite hymns, and I held my little boy's hand, and I could feel my eyes fill up with tears, I was that happy.

He had received his First Communion. But I was the one who felt blessed.

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