Daddy was working late on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, so I pulled our hulking van into a narrow spot outside a local eatery. Agnes (12) and Theresa (11) fell into their usual routines, zipping a jacket here and unfastening a strap there, and within moments we were out of the car, across the frosty parking lot, and huddling inside the diner for warmth.

As we approached the register, the hostess' eye darted left and right, taking us in with what looked to me (and I hate to say this) like a glint of disapproval. "Eight?" she asked, with a straight face and arched brow, snapping an oversized pile of menus to her chest.  She led the way briskly to a half moon booth, and the children slid into their seats. An elderly couple at the next table caught my eye. The wife beamed affectionately, saying, "Your family is lovely," and I gave her my earnest thanks.

As we were leaving, I passed the baby to twelve-year-old Agnes and lingered a moment leaving a tip. The couple waved goodbye to each child in turn, warmly complimenting our family once more.  

I reached the register still smiling and found our formerly chilly hostess had thawed considerably. "Would it be all right if I gave the children lollipops?" she asked, reaching for a plastic bucket. I nodded readily, wondering if the fact that we had not turned out to be disruptive had anything to do with her pleasant demeanor.

Twelve-year-old Agnes was still carrying Eileen as I pocketed my change, and I noticed that two teenage girls working behind the counter had stopped her to talk. The first girl, clad in dismal double spaghetti straps asked, "Is she your baby?" Agnes beamed back, "Yes, she is," with a smile of unreserved sisterly pride. "But," said the second spaghetti-strapped girl in a tone impatient for clarification, "Is she your baby?"

Agnes appeared perplexed by the question. I understood all too well and strode over in an instant to take Eileen, thanking Agnes for holding her, and saying in a voice remarkably calm considering the heat rising up within me, "She is only twelve years old," and managing — though I know not how — a weak smile. The pair met my gaze with unabashed worldliness, lingering as if this response had not yet answered the question, so I hastened to add, "They are sisters." The first girl grunted "Oh!" and the other nodded and shrugged, as I ushered my young ones away from the counter, past the register, and out into the freezing darkness for warmth.

It has been a few months now, and I'd almost succeeded in suppressing this troubling little exchange, remembering it vaguely as I would a belt once snagged in the doors of a departing train. Then this week, in considering the words of the Catechism, "Sacred Scripture and the Church's traditional practice see in large families a sign of God's blessing and the parents' generosity" (CCC 2373), I began to realize what really happened in that diner. It seems the teenage girls were completely unprepared to see a large young family, and the experience left them groping for an explanation. In their world, it was easier to understand a twelve-year-old mother than a mother of seven. It was as if they had stumbled upon a unicorn for the first time and could make neither head nor tail of the beast.

At the end of the day, our reception varied by generation. The elderly couple hearkened back to a time when unicorns were plenty and felt a wave of loving, hopeful nostalgia upon seeing one of the dear old creatures alive and well. The hostess (a woman about my age) expected the unicorn to tramp its dirty hoof prints about, but was kind enough to offer a conciliatory carrot when she discovered it harmless enough. The teenage girls, sad to say, could not begin to fathom a mythical unicorn come to life in their midst and reflexively probed the base of its horn for Velcro or straps, dismissing the thing as a sort of parlor trick.

It seems to me there must be a connection made to the Feast of the Immaculate Conception — a day we rejoice in Our Lady's purity from the moment of her conception. My heart aches to recall the hardened countenances of those teens, jaded and faded during what ought to be the fairest bloom of their youth. Jesus once said, "Whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him if a great millstone were put around his neck and he were thrown into the sea." Two thousand years later, He has entrusted parents to fasten the millstone round the neck of the impurities of today's culture — fashion, music, movies, magazines, and any evils blighting our children and quenching the holy light of innocence in their eyes. If we fail in this, what will He say to us?

My thoughts turn to the beauty and gentleness of the elderly woman, with her feminine dress and ready smile, compared to the cool crassness of the teenage girls. She was like a verdant, venerable oak fed on spring water alongside two wizened young saplings in acid. What a sorrowful thing it is when seventy-year-olds seem younger, fresher and more full of hope than seventeen-year-olds.

Our beautiful Catechism guides us in what it so rightly calls "The Battle for Purity" calling for modesty and teaching "Modesty is decency. It inspires one's choice of clothing. It keeps silence or reserve where there is evident risk of unhealthy curiosity. It is discreet" (CCC 2522).  "Christian purity requires a purification of the social climate" (CCC 2525).

When it comes to our children, the Battle must be fought and won by stalwart parents. Let us see to it the saplings in our care are fed on the sunshine and spring water known as Faith and Purity. And may we always remind these young ones to believe in unicorns.