Sacred Mundane: The Blog

Well, when we found out that Jeff’s Dad’s wife was going to be out of town during our visit, I figured that I would be doing the cooking. But, I was amazed and impressed when Dan (Jeff’s dad) started making lunch—we had Campbell’s tomato soup and a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches, cut in triangles, and since it was 2pm and we’d been on the go since 9am that morning, it was the best meal I’d ever eaten. I even snuck the last triangle of grilled cheese while the boys were busy slurping their soup. Dinner was delightfully male. When Betsy (Dan’s wife) is there we usually have a huge salad, with dozens of different types of veggies, or a vegetable soup of some sort, or stir fry. This night? Barbequed ribs and boiled potatoes. Oh yeah. I dug around in the fridge and whipped up a salad. Then, surprising even myself, ate a plentiful helping of ribs and my entire potato along with my salad. Halloween candy followed for dessert. It was actually kind of fun eating like a guy—I just had to force myself to not think about completely striking out on my veggie and fiber quota for the day.

Jeff’s Dad is really a kind man. He is very unpretentious and down to earth. What you see is what you get. He loves his wife, and we could tell he missed having her there, but he cheerfully did all the housework and went to the grocery store before we came so that Jeff had his soy milk (Mr. Lactose-intolerant) and Dutch had his applesauce. Dan is also a very good match for us because he’s very content to do not much of anything. I guess it can be a downfall because we all could have spent all three days doing nothing but reading, playing dominoes, going for walks, and working on our computers. Then again, why is there anything wrong with that?

But I guess we all figured that we better do something, so we piled in the car and took Dutch to the park. This was kind of funny because Dutch was tired and out of sorts that day, so he literally just stared at us, with a droopy sort of frown on his face, the entire time we were there. Jeff slid down the slide with him, climbed up the play structures, and even pushed him on the baby swing. I held him on my lap and swung, while Jeff clicked pictures and made funny faces. Not a single smile. Not one. We played until we finally gave up—not having received so much as a courtesy smile from this child. He never fussed, he just stared at us with droopy eyes. Apparently it just wasn’t the day for the park. But afterwards, we wouldn’t give up and just go home. No, we were out to do something. Now, Dutch has no shoes and we never seem to find the time to go out and take him with us to buy him shoes. The other obstacle to shoeing our son is that Dutch has very fat feet, so none of the normal baby shoes fit him. So, Dan announced that he wanted to buy Dutch his first pair of shoes and we were happy to oblige. Wal-mart here we come.

Jeff and I are not Wal-Mart fans. Please do not be offended if you are one. That is fine. But we are not. We think it’s quite possibly the most depressing place on earth, because, and please pardon this overwhelming generalization, but it seems like no one there is ever happy, and that people are always buying things they a) cannot afford, b) don’t need, or c) really, really, really should not be eating. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to reach into the cart of the person ahead of me and unload the bags of Doritos, cans of Spaghetti-O’s, boxes of Captain Crunch, and 24-packs of Mountain Dew, and replace it all with a few canisters of Quaker oatmeal and some apples. But, that’s not my place. Anyway, like I said, it’s not my favorite place in the world.

But, I have been known to shop there on occasion, because there are those certain moments when Wal-Mart is the perfect place to get that super value item you need. For example, when I need cleaning supplies, shampoo, or a pregnancy test—Wal-Mart is the place to go. Yes, a pregnancy test. You see, the 2nd stall in the Wal-Mart bathroom is actually where I found out I was pregnant with Dutch. I know, you can’t believe it. I felt sick at work and just had to know, so I used my lunch break to zip over to the local Wal-Mart where I knew I could get a pee test for under two dollars. Once I’d bought it, why wait? I darted into the bathroom, followed the directions, and three minutes later I had two pink lines. We were having a baby.

So, as you can see, Wal-Mart, though not our favorite store to frequent, definitely has its place in our life. So, when Dan suggested looking there for shoes, we shrugged our shoulders. Why not?

And, like an old friend, Wal-Mart came through. Shoes–that fit–for $9.88. And they’re actually nice-looking as well. You know what else? We didn’t wait in line, and the girl that checked us out, bless her soul, smiled and was cheerful. She even said to have a nice day and I think she meant it. Wonders never cease.

The Road to Santa Barbara

No, don’t worry. This isn’t another 220-page story about our misfortunes in the state of California. This time, we’re just visiting. We’re flying to Sacramento to visit Jeff’s Dad, then driving down to Santa Barbara on Friday for a wedding on Saturday. So, this morning we packed up our two mammoth suitcases, car seat, stroller, and two carry-on bags and toted the Dutcher to the airport via the Bill Zyp shuttle. We marveled at the fact that if the two of us had been traveling alone, like we used to do, we would have needed ¼ of what we were currently taking. For such a small person, Dutch sure requires a lot of stuff!
Thankfully, airline personnel are used to people like us, and they smile knowingly as we lug our suitcases and push the stroller, still managing to feed Cheerios to a wide-eyed ten-month-old waving his hands in the air. They are wonderful to us. Even the security people were friendly, smiling and asking how our day was and poking Dutch’s cheeks. Jeff observed wisely, “People are nicer to us than they used to be.” It’s Dutch.
Dutch is the reason for a lot of things. He’s the reason my parents are really sad about us leaving for five days – that’s it, five days. Yeah, they are spoiled getting to have their grandson live with them. I don’t think they’ve ever been sad when Jeff and I have gone on vacation before . . . but they’re sad now. Dutch is also the reason why Grandpa Patterson is jumping out of his skin with excitement that we’re here. There’s an old keyboard on the floor, just for Dutch (who loves to type on keyboards; thanks Grandma Betsy!), there are containers of applesauce in the fridge. There are toys just waiting to be scattered across the floor. Yes, Grandpa Patterson is ready for Dutch.
I will say this: After we’d had the wonderful passage through cheerful security guards, and I’d gotten my Grande Decaf Caramel Macchiato, Dutch was swinging his feet cheerfully in the stroller and I was feeling good about the traveling thing. Yeah, we really had it all together. So, I told Jeff, “Before Dutch is two (when kids have to actually buy a ticket and have their own seas), we need to take a lot of trips—visit the Seifers, your brother and Brenda, and Kris and Nikki. It’s so great traveling with Dutch we need to take advantage of it before we have to pay for him.” How blissfully ignorant I was.
Thirty minutes later, we were stuffed into the impossibly tiny seats of Southwest Airlines, and it had to be one-hundred-and-twenty degrees. Dutch was sweating and as soon as we started to take off, he was wailing. Right across the aisle sat another little girl, Dutch’s age, sitting absolutely silently on her mommy’s lap, playing with her own fingers. I could not believe it. I could see her, as we ascended, slowly start to drift asleep, where she leaned into her mommy’s chest and nodded off without a peep. Ah! At the same time, Dutch had turned into a wild animal, and was thrashing around, arching his chest and wailing, hitting his head against the back of the seat in front of us.
So, I figured I’d try to nurse him, to keep him quiet. Imagine trying to modestly breast feed a tiger, tightly surrounded by businessmen and other complete strangers. Jeff reached into my diaper bag to get get my “hooter hider” (my indispensable fabric nursing cover), and started laughing when he saw that I’d actually brought a book in my carry-on. “I know. I know. What was I thinking?” He smiled, then tried to help me put on the nursing cover, pulling it over my face so all my hair fell over my eyes, then tried to get it over Dutch while he’s yanking it away. I’m sure half the plane saw much more than I care to think about, and every minute or so Dutch would pull off and cry, pulling off the cover and arching his back, thrashing around. This was ten minutes into the flight and I finally just closed my eyes and started pleading with God to help this child to settle down.
And, of course, he did. He never necessarily was calm, but at least he was happy. A steady stream of Cheerios kept him busy, then straw-fulls of diluted apple juice, then once we were at cruising altitude, he happily walked along the aisle, holding onto the arm rests, making new friends in every row. Thankfully, no one scowled at us, and everyone said he was cute, so apparently the whole scene in the beginning of the flight wasn’t as horrific as I’d felt it was.
As we disembarked in Sacramento, I felt like the flight lasted a week. The truth? It was only a 1-hour flight! As Jeff unfolded the stroller, I kissed my precious boy who was smiling and completely oblivious to my grief. Man, I love him. His smile, the way his little upper lip sticks out, the way he bats his hands and claps and sticks out his tongue—it was worth every second.
However, I amended my previous statement: “Honey, I take back what I said: Let’s wait until Dutch is two and we can strap him into his own seat . . . preferable at the opposite end of the plane from us.”

~Stay tuned for more adventures from sunny California. . .

Take some time to check out the new pages to your left:  I’ve updated my bio (which may not interest you), but added a Word for Today page, a Food for Thought page, and a Honey for our Souls page.  Check them out, and if I haven’t ever mentioned this to you:  Thank you for reading.  I’m honored you’d take the time to be here with me. 

                                          ~Kari

So, for the past three months I’ve had itchy shoulders.  Jeff thinks it’s hilarious; I think it’s infuriating.  The strange thing is that I have no rash, no redness, no bumps, and it gets much more intense at night.  During the day I rarely notice it, and I thought perhaps that it was just psychological, but no, last night I was awake until 3am with burning, itching arms–ah!  So today I finally researched.  What did I find?  I have a rare, enigmatic condition called Brachioradial pruritus.  I thought that sounded like something affecting my lungs, but apparently it is a real thing that causes unrelenting bouts of itchy arms for prolonged periods of time.  It’s been linked to both sun exposure (probably my culprit) or arthritis in the neck which causes nerve damage in the upper arm and shoulder area.  Therefore the sufferer’s average age is considerably higher than 27.  However, everything I read, including online conversations, blogs, and posted questions, all point to this diagnosis.  It strikes in the late summer/or early fall, or after prolonged sun exposure such as a visit to a sunny climate.  Its intensity peaks and falls with no apparent predictability, and some people have it for a few months and several claimed to have had it (off and on) for over 25 years!  The sufferers wrote at length about being sleep-deprived because this ridiculous itchiness drives them absolutely mad all night.  Why is it worse at night?  Apparently the heat from blankets causes the condition to become worse.  Some people sleep with ice packs on their arms, others with wet towls wrapped around their biceps.  Fortunately for me, I discovered a decade-old bottle of anti-itch gel in the bathroom drawer and doused both arms.  It felt like a cool breeze blowing on my arms all night long. 

All day I’ve been trying to think of some really significant spiritual insight to gain from this ridiculous disorder.  I can think of none.  Of course we talked about the itch of self-regard.  And yes, I can wholeheartedly agree with CS Lewis and say that it is FAR better to not have any itch in the first place than to have an itch and scratch it.  Scratching it just makes it worse!  But, really, that’s a pretty lame application.  Or, perhaps the lesson is that we should obey our husbands when they tell us to wear a long-sleeved shirt in the summer to avoid too much sun exposure (experts say sunscreen doesn’t help prevent this condition).  Or, the lesson may be to keep a handy bottle of anti-itch gel handy just in case you are ever unexpectedly plagued with Brachioradial pruritus in the middle of the night.  Who knows.  If you have any insights or spiritual lessons for me, please, comment below.  I’ll just be sitting here, scratching my shoulders.