tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-221572592024-03-13T20:12:57.489-07:00pastorschickMaking fun of hotdish since 1999.
email: pastorschick@sbcglobal.netpastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.comBlogger204125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-32715349205118793812009-11-14T06:27:00.000-08:002009-11-14T09:35:44.257-08:00Birthday DinnerThe Reverend Sir has a conference all weekend, so last night was the appointed night to celebrate my birthday. I was instructed to come home after school, put on a pair of jeans, and get in the car. So I came home and did as I was instructed, but was told to wait, because the freezer repairman was supposed to be here at 4:30, to install a part that was on order for two weeks. Nothing says freezer repair urgency like turkeys on sale for 25 cents a pound. So we waited, and waited. Waiting is good! It really teaches virtues, like patience, and muttering under one's breath, and feeding your child cookies so that he can wait to eat dinner when it is past his bedtime.<br /><br />The repairman finally came, and he left before I realized he was gone. The freezer hums! It is now a hungry maw awaiting our frozen greed. (sorry, I am in the midst of a unit of Shakespeare). I was finally given clearance to get in the car and off we went to the mystery restaurant. An aside about me: I really don't like surprises. I tell myself I do, but you are reading the blog of a woman who has been known to unwrap Christmas presents when no one is around and then re-wrap them. I leave the room at the climax of crime shows because I just can't stand the suspense. Weird, perhaps, but some may find it charming. So, I am squirming in the passenger seat of our car because I have no idea where we are going. I know it is not a fancy restaurant because Lucas is with us, and I am wearing jeans. Those days went away a long time ago. I don't think The Rev. would take me to Marie Callender's or Mimi's for my birthday, because he never mentioned a coupon. My solution to my angst was to play with my cell phone, which drives my husband nuts. So, I have a child in the backseat who is stressing me because he is being so good and it is his dinnertime so something must be wrong with him, and a husband who is dangling a mystery restaurant over my head. To me. A self acclaimed food snob. I'm surprised I didn't break out in hives last night.<br /><br />We wound up in Vista, and The Rev. said, "Help me find the Famous Dave's." Famous Dave's? You are taking your wife, who spent the majority of her life raised on juke-joint barbecue and her mama's farmhouse potato salad to a chain barbecue restaurant? You must think that age has begun to soften my gray matter. But, dear reader, I kept these thoughts to myself, and while I was pondering them in my heart, I pointed and said, "Oh, look, it is the new Sonic. How cute." And then The Rev. gets this sly grin on his face and he says, "Maybe you would rather have Sonic." Dumb me, I reply, "Nah, I don't think I want Sonic." Dumb me. Of course you want to eat Sonic, because that WAS YOUR HUSBAND'S ORIGINAL INTENT YOU MORON. Your husband, who you think doesn't listen to all the important words you have to say, decides to do something sweet and romantic (albeit totally southern, mildly redneck) way and you deny him. Nice. He deserves the birthday meal for agreeing to put up with you until death. So I recover and I say, "Well let's figure this out, they don't look that busy." HA HA HA.<br /><br />We circle the block and the restaurant has the entrances blocked off. We pull up and ask the uniformed girl what we have to do to get our cherry limeade fix. She pointed up the street and said, "Take two rights and go to the dirt lot. That's the staging area." Wait. Staging area? What is that? It's Sonic. I come from a part of the country where Sonic is as ubiquitous as Baptist churches, Dollar General stores, and Kroger. Seriously, a staging area? At least it is in a dirt lot, that evokes some memories of home, and authenticity, but who am I to judge.? I was going to eat Sonic; I could handle a little off-roading. So we drove the appointed two blocks and looked at the 36 cars lined up in the staging area and we decided to go to Famous Dave's. The Rev. and I agreed that while we did indeed love and cherish one another, we recognized it was not worth a test of one's patience, especially not one of that magnitude.<br /><br />We ate our barbecue, and we enjoyed our beer, and Lucas was an angel during the meal. When we left, we thought we would drive by one more time, because maybe the line wouldn't be so bad and we could get a Banana Cream Pie shake. We pulled up to the staging area, and the teen-age boy asked, "Do you want car-hop or drive-thru?" I replied, "Food doesn't taste any different if a girl on roller skates brings it to me, so give me drive-thru." He waved us through, gave us a ticket (are your reading this, my Tennessee friends? Especially the ones who would sneak off campus with me at lunch to the Sonic that was a block from the school? You better RELISH your next Coney dog, or Toaster sandwich, because you are eating PURE GOLD.) and off we went to wait for fifteen minutes behind a guy who read the entire menu before ordering. You think I am exaggerating that point. I am not exaggerating that point. We finally ordered, and I had to settle on a chocolate cream pie shake because they were out of banana. It really didn't matter because I got two sips before a greedy toddler screeched in my ear for a sip and clutched the cup to him like it was a chalice from the last crusade.<br /><br />It was an enjoyable ride home, and the Sonic trip kindled some memories of our early marriage, when I would sell tickets at the high school football game and The Rev. would watch the game in the stands, often sitting behind the mother of one of my students. She would clang a cowbell and in a thick, syrupy accent screech, "Low-Ull! Low-ull!" Her son's name was Lowell, and I think you get the picture. After the game we would go to Sonic and listen to the high school football reports on the radio and talk about Hunter's Lane's chances at the playoffs. Now we marvel at how different our lives are, but different in a better way. It was worth the suspense.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-24595117694730639272009-11-13T09:56:00.000-08:002009-11-13T10:05:58.202-08:00JUNE? REALLY?I was surprised to see it has been nearly six months since I last posted my musings. I thought it had been August.<br /><br /><br /><br />Forgive me. I've been busy.<br /><br /><br /><br />Busy is probably too blase' of a word. Ninety miles an hour with my hair on fire is probably a better description. Teaching is wonderful, and the family is much more appreciative of my "normal" hours. No more late nights, no more weekends, no more holidays. Which brings me to the coming holidays, and how I am working hard on restraining myself to not go Clark Griswold on everybody and make these the hap-hap-happiest holidays since Noel Coward sang "Jingle Bells."<br /><br /><br /><br />Or something like that.<br /><br /><br /><br />Honestly, I have been too busy to put pen to paper to plan the festivities, and I have a feeling this year is going to be a ninety mile an hour with my hair on fire kind of year. And when I wake up on New Year's Day, I will sit up, blink, rub my eyes, and wonder "What just happened?" We do have friends coming for Thanksgiving, which means rubbing my hands in maniacal glee and stocking up the fridge and the wine closet. It also means that the cookie recipes have to come out, as well as the 25 pound sack of flour for the dozens of cookies that will be coming out of our thirty year old oven. Frankly, I'm just happy to be looking forward to the holidays, instead of looking forward to them being done. Ha. 'Tis a strange feeling, but I am embracing it.<br /><br /><br /><br />We are crossing the Mississippi for the holidays, so prepare yourself for an onslaught of pictures of what I am going to eat. I promise I will only post one picture of Sonic. Well, maybe two.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-87675009372260986372009-06-26T10:19:00.000-07:002009-06-26T14:24:09.365-07:00Causing me to PauseYeah, Michael Jackson is dead. I briefly alluded to his "Thriller" in a Facebook comment; I also referenced a red pleather disco bag that a grade school friend had and I wanted. I can still see the likeness of his face etched on that bag, complete with the word, "Thriller." That memory has got to be at least 25 years old, if not older. I don't want to think about it.<br /><br />Then my brother made a comment on his Facebook in regards to a writer's comment about Michael Jackson being bigger than Elvis. My first reaction was to disagree, and I wrote a long blog about it, and then I walked away from the computer to think about what I had written. Now I am back, with the benefit of four hour hindsight, and I think Elvis will always be bigger Michael Jackson. Yes, Elvis died of a drug overdose, and like so many other famous celebrities, painkillers became his drug of choice when the pressure of fame became too much for him to handle. Elvis did have some erratic behavior (the visit to Nixon in a sparkly jumpsuit), but at the end of the day, it was Elvis and his Memphis Mafia behind the gates of Graceland. If there was weirdness going on, it was a well kept secret. <br /><br /><br />Michael Jackson? To say his life was a carnival freak show is to speak ill of the dead, but a spade is a spade. If you look at the psyhchological parameters for abnormal behavior, Mr. Jackson is Exhibit A. The chimpanzee, the hyperbaric chamber, the plastic surgery and the disappearing nose. I have to agree with a radio commentator: I think the man was incredibly sad. As a result, he dulled the pain with behavior that most normal people could not understand. And then came the molestation charges. The trial ended before a jury could reach a verdict in regards to the accusations charged against him, and some saw the settlement as an admission of guilt, washed away with a pay off. Others saw the settlement as a wise business decision that would be cheaper in the long run. I think the spectrum of public tolerance is pretty wide, but when it deals with the abuse of a child, bar the door. A nose job? Forgiveable, everyone in Hollywood has had some work. The chimp? Meh, an exotic pet. A molestation charge? Damned forever. Even if he was found innocent, the specter would always loom: he got off because he was famous. I personally believe he got away WITH A LOT because he was famous. Remember the baby dangling incident? <br /><br />And the more I think about Elvis, the more I think about how incredible the Elvis machine is in regards to marketing his likeness. Priscilla Presley was genius in handling her daughter's affairs, and if anyone has visited the vast complex across the street from The King's home, you know exactly what I mean. I personally don't need a t-shirt or a mug or a cookbook emblazoned with his likeness to show my admiration for the man and his music, but there are some who do. I only own his greatest hits. I know the man can sing, but I will probably buy some sort of memorabilia when I am in Memphis in a few weeks. A little taste of home, if you will, perhaps a magnet for my refrigerator, and I will justify my purchase saying that this enterprise is a testament to those who love Elvis, constructed by his loved ones.<br /><br />Who is going to create the Michael Jackson machine? The living one certainly self-destructed a long time ago. Perhaps the better question is, will there be one created? Will there be a giant, vast complex across from Neverland Ranch where you can buy a t-shirt or a coffee mug or a stuffed chimp named Bubbles? Unfortunately, I think there will be. I am steeling myself for the t-shirts with his likeness and his birth and death date, because someone out there is going to make money on him, and in our world, that is all that matters. The insatiable need to peer at the train wreck, to learn his secrets, to twitter about the children will all translate into dollar signs for someone. It may be family driven, it may not be, only time will tell, and it will be measured by the volume sold.<br /><br />Again, why does anyone want to be famous?pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-40060754406341375672009-06-22T20:16:00.000-07:002009-07-02T07:31:33.941-07:00On Working MotherhoodLucas has started going to a babysitter a few days a week. The Rev. has his hands full with visits and planning. I have my hands full with shuttling back and forth between the store and school. We finally had to buckle and arrange for someone to watch him so we can get stuff done. I admit: I can't do it all. My apologies to those who thought I could. A definition of working motherhood: consciously deciding not to do the dishes so that you can play with your son. The dishes will be in the sink tomorrow. Lucas pushing a pink carpet sweeper around while holding a cookie and wearing a diaper is temporal. <br /><br /><br />Working motherhood. Sigh. I ask Lucas, "Where's Mommy?" He points to The Rev. and says, "Daddy!" Thanks, kid, why don't you twist that knife a little deeper into my chest? He is in good hands with Aunty Treva, someone with whom he is familiar, and she loves him like her own, but I still feel the guilt, the nagging voice that I am not doing enough. It gets worse at night, when I am trying to put him down, and he fights sleep until The Rev. can come home and say prayers with him and sing "Now Rest Beneath Night's Shadows." For those of you who don't recognizie the title, it is a hymn, not a vampire melody. And I think it is a lovely sight to see daddy and son cuddled together in the chair, a sippy cup in the crook of Lucas's arm, as he drifts off to sleep.<br /><br />My mother was here recently, and she noticed I let Lucas do something that seemed out of character for me. I can't recall what it was, maybe it was giving him some jellybeans after he had brushed his teeth, or something insignificant, and she asked me why I let him do that. "Working mother guilt," was my pat answer. She really didn't have a response for it. I used to teach in a preschool, and we would cluck and murmur about the lunches that kids would be given, or the fact that their shoes had worn out and they had not been replaced yet. I understand now the frazzled sense of trying to get it all done, and sometimes it is a-okay for a kid to eat bologna three days in a row, or wear the socks he wore yesterday. He's happy. He knows we love him. He can get clean socks out of the laundry basket. <br /><br />I don't know what it means to be a stay at home mom. I don't consider my maternity leave a period of stay at home mom-hood. I was out for 8 weeks. We rarely left the house because he was nursing every two hours, and my one anxiety was nursing in public. I know, I know, we live in an enlightened culture; it is such a natural thing to do; I live in California for crying out loud, but I let me tell you, my life was made exponentially easier when Lucas took to a bottle. It got easier when he started eatin table food. It got a little easier when he became more mobile. It gets a little easier every day. Lucas turned 18 months yesterday, a testament to his survival of our parenting skills. So working motherhood it is, and it probably will be for a very long time, and I will continue to ignore the dishes in the sink and the unmade bed. I have more important things to do.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-52617517926099859752009-06-16T23:58:00.000-07:002009-06-17T00:00:52.593-07:00Many people have asked me about when I made the decision to return to teaching. I cannot give you the exact time or day, but I can tell you it was made some time during the holiday crush when I had been working for nine days straight and was seriously contemplating skipping putting up the Christmas tree, again. The previous year we skipped the tree because I was nine months pregnant and tired. Last year I had an 11 month old and was even more tired.<br /><br />It also had to do with California easing restrictions on teachers with out of state licenses. When we first moved to California five years ago, the state was suspicious of anyone who had not been trained or taught in their state. Suspicious to the oint of, "Hey, we have to indoctrinate you, so go back to school to take coursework on the history of California and using computers in the classroom." Plus, you had to take the CBEST, some sort of basic education test to make sure that teachers entering schools kood write reel good. And I was told that it was on an eighth grade level. Seriously, eighth grade level? So are you saying that you only want teachers who are as smart as an eighth grader? Because of all the grades I am willing to teach, there is not enough money in the world to get me to teach an eighth grade boy. I don’t need to be privy to the knowledge an eighth grade boy possesses about Carmen Electra and farts. And hello, I just paid off my very expensive, private label, liberal arts Master’s Degree from THE top ranked school of education in the country, and I wasn’t about to go back to school. I rarely pull that out, because I am not an elitist snob, but when I have to impress elitist snobs…<br /><br />So, in January, I compiled my packet to send off to the state to see if I qualified for a credential. Transcripts, fingerprints, letters from my previous district all got packaged up and sent to Sacramento. In May, I got a letter from the state denying my credential because the letter stating my employment in Nashville did not state I was a full time employee. I am not kidding. Denied because the letter stated I worked for four years, but not full time for years, or even part time for that matter. I don’t know of a teacher who works part-time, do you? Another round of phone calls and another letter was sent out and two weeks later, nearly six months after I mailed off the initial packet, I received, via email, a letter stating that I was issued a credential. Hallelujah. I would like to mention that in the interim, I did interview for and was offered a job, and I was fingerprinted an additional three times because no one shares information on applicants. That, people, is your tax dollars at work.<br /><br />I do realize that the Dear LORD has had his hand in this process, because I applied for three other positions and never heard a word from any of them. If the state is going to run out of money, receive a bailout, or go bankrupt, I am very thankful I scooted in the door before it is shut for long time. God is watching out for me, but he is most definitely watching out for my little one, because this mama gets her nights, weekends and holidays back. This Christmas is going to be awesome.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-33374469308434096282009-06-09T06:57:00.000-07:002009-06-09T07:28:35.304-07:00Back to RoutineThose of you on Facebook already know, and if you share any DNA with me, you must be living under a rock not to know. Yesterday I officially resigned my management job to accept a teaching position at a high school here in Escondido. Yeah! Considering how dour the economic outlook is in California, I am truly grateful to have this opportunity presented to me.<br /><br />It is bittersweet for me, as I will just miss my five year anniversary with the company. I will also miss the generous employee discount, and the travel up and down the West coast. In my five year tenure, I made many wonderful friends, and I know I altered the path of friendship yesterday when I made those dozen phone calls. Christmas cards may be exchanged and we may talk on occasion, but I will be an outsider now, and that makes me kind of sad. For those of you who have never worked retail, and think it is all about folding sweaters and standing around looking cute, let me tell you, IT IS HARD. It is not just about folding sweaters and looking cute. It is about maintaining a house that is probably bigger than the one you are living in, and it can range from changing a lightbulb in a twenty foot ceiling to soothing a customer who thinks Fed-Ex lost her jacket only to realize two days later that it is hanging mysteriously in her closet. It is about making your numbers and being proud that you did, and not making your numbers and having to take a look at yourself and your staff to figure out how you are going to right the ship. <br /><br />It is also about early bird mornings where the store is dismantled and re-assembled, and everyone remains in a state of confusion for three days because they can't find the pants "that were just on this rack two days ago." It is about decorating for Christmas in October, and passing out candy to trick or treaters in the mall, all while standing outside the store, feet from a huge sled, so that the constant in and out of candy grabbers won't ruin your conversion. It is visits from V.P.s and executives and quick bites to eat in between customers, and it is patiently listening to an older woman sob in the fitting room because she lost her husband last year and she is so lonely she wants to die.<br /><br />I've learned these past five years.<br /><br />But now I have a baby whose first haircut I missed because I was working. And the morning I left him to return to work, I ate oatmeal over the kitchen sink, sobbing because I was a working mother. The Rev. and I had a deal. I would stay home when the kids came. Well, the kids never came, and then one finally did, the deal had to be altered. He had the baby at his office and I went to work. "I am doing this for him, not to him," I would say over and over again, as I dragged my breast pump into my tiny office. I watched his father take him trick or treating at the mall because I was working, and I relished every minute of Christmas Day, because I knew that I would be leaving again the next day for an early round of post-Christmas bargain hunters. There were many later afternoon hand offs, as I came walking in the door from work, and The Rev. was walking out for a meeting or a hospital visit. Lucas didn't nap on Thanksgiving Day, because his parents were in the same room and he couldn't believe his good fortune. Truly, something to say grace about.<br /><br />So, now it is time to embrace a routine, and weekends off, and the holidays. No more missed haircuts or church events, and I could not be happier. The Rev. and I just watched a movie this week, and the main character narrated a great line, "You go back to visit, and it looks the same, and it smells the same, and the people are same, but you realize that you are the one who has changed." And that bittersweet summation of life is so true. I have changed, but I know these past five years happened for a purpose, and I am looking forward to being a better wife, mother, and teacher.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-53977443466164587992009-05-07T08:14:00.000-07:002009-05-07T08:16:29.315-07:00Change is in the airThere are changes a-coming round the corner, I hope. Now don't get excited, Lucas is not going to have a little brother or sister. I know what ya'll are thinking. However, change is good, and sometimes one has to take matters into their own hands.<br /><br />Everyone say a little prayer for me today, around 1:00.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-7558165114500530362009-04-12T20:45:00.000-07:002009-04-12T20:48:41.919-07:00In Between ServicesLucas wore his p.j.'s to Sunrise Service and then I changed him into his Easter outfit in between services:<br /><br />Rev: Is that the outfit he is wearing?<br /><br />Me: It's the outfit I am putting on...<br /><br />Rev: He is going to wear sandals for church? We always had to wear dress shoes to church when I was growing up.<br /><br />Me: This is San Diego. He's wearing sandals to church. Consider yourself lucky that I didn't rock the flip-flops to church this morning.<br /><br />And then he wound up running around barefoot after the Festival service.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-45467478918450250992009-04-07T20:54:00.000-07:002009-04-07T21:15:53.573-07:00Wishing for Little FeetThe boy needed an outfit for Easter, preferably one that did not have to be starched and ironed and in a color that would hide the crumbs of whatever he happenedto be eating. Do you know how much little boys get short-changed when it comes to special occasion clothes? Humans certainly are different from the animals because every male animal I can think of has magnificent colors. Little boys get relegated to a tiny corner of navy blue and white while clothing for little girls vomit all over the store in a cascade of pink and purple, along with headbands, barettes, socks iced with lace, and little plastic purses.<br /><br /><br />Today I went to four stores in 30 minutes (I work at a mall) on the hunt for clothes for Easter Sunday. I figured he has a blue oxford shirt at home, so all he really needs is a little sweater or jacket and a new pair of pants. I was even ready to plunk down $40 for a sweater and a pair of pants at one store, but the one clerk was doing a price adjustment for two women in front of me and it was taking forever. That store did not get my money. I finally found an outfit for him at a department store, plus bought an extra outfit just in case (you always have to have a Plan B) and I got it all for the same amount I was willing to pay at the other store. We'll see how it goes when I try to find him some shoes. We may have to put some shoe polish on his brown sandals and call it a day. I'm tired.<br /><br /><br />I am also hunting for something for myself, and I am not having any luck. I have a pair of off-white slacks and all I really want is a pretty top to wear with them. No luck. Everything I have seen today is hideous. And I know some of you are thinking, "You work retail, buy something from your own store." To that I say, "There are times in one's life where you look in your closet and realize you need to branch out." I am refusing to buy one more thing from my store. I also need new shoes, specifically a pair of comfortable sandals. I don't wear heels much anymore for a few reasons: 1. I am nearly 5 feet, 10 inches tall. If I wear heels I have to let the hem out of my pants or order them in a longer length. Time is of the essence. 2. Because I am tall, I have big feet. Big shoes are not cute. 3. I'm tired and heels require you to work it.<br /><br /><br /><br />Tonight I looked for sandals and I got increasingly frustrated because all of the sandals are hideous this season also. Why do you need to have fringe on a sandal? I love the look of a platform wedge, but again, I would be over 6 feet tall if I wore them. I'm tall enough, thank you. What kills me is that manufacturers don't seem to be thinking of these things when they make these shoes. I wore a woman's size 7 in the FOURTH GRADE, and the size 7 wedge is still quite adorable, however, when it is presented to me in a size 11 something just gets lost in translation. So tonight I walked longingly past the little 6s and 7s and 8s, and checked out the 11s. While I looked I wondered if there are any short women out there with big feet, or tall women out there with tiny feet.<br /><br />Tomorrow is another day, and I will be looking.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-78440695330951164302009-04-03T08:21:00.001-07:002009-04-05T16:24:31.038-07:00Field TripYesterday The Rev. and I packed up the little one and headed north to Los Angeles. A friend from high school was giving a talk and having a book signing at a small book store on the Sunset Strip. I knew The Rev. would not want to go just for a 10 minute face to face with someone I haven't seen in nearly 16 years, but I told him we could go to Pann's Restaurant first for fried chicken and waffles and then drive the 20 minutes to see Heather. This would be Lucas's first extened road trip, and after clocking in nearly two hours in his car seat he was ready for some fried chicken.<br /><br /><br /><br />We first went to Pann's after The Rev.'s return from his Mexican experience, and we have been talking about their fried chicken for the past two years. I recall Willard Scott once speaking about being a judge at the Memphis in May BBQ cooking contest, he told the interviewer that after a while you think you cannot look at another piece of smoked pork, but then, when you leave the experience all you can think is , "Must. Get. Smoked. Pork." The Rev. and I feel the same way about Pann's. We haven't overdosed on it by any means, but as of late we've been looking at each other and saying, "Must. Get. Fried. Chicken." So off to Pann's we went and we immensely enjoyed our fried chicken. And all I can think of at this moment (even after Sunday brunch) is the next time I will get to sink my teeth into a chicken wing fried to a crispy, golden goodness.<br /><br />Our road trips have been rare, due to the nature of our schedules, and our trips to Los Angeles even rarer. We have both traveled there for our jobs on separate occasions, and given our tastes of L.A. traffic, we don't travel there <em>if we don't have to.</em> The trip was unfolding spectacularly well, and we left the restaurant with plenty of time to make it the bookstore. It was literally a straight shot down La Cienega to the Strip, and once we got there our lives of suburban domesticity came out and sucker-punched in the face: no free parking. We drove up and down, looking for a place to park, or at least, a place that would take a Visa card, because who in the world carries cash with them these days? I can think of two people in my life that would always have cash on them, and unluckily for us, they weren't in the backseat of our car. Most of the available parking demanded ten bucks in cash, and my frustration mounted with the lack of ATMs. After the fourth u-turn down a street, I just so happened to pull out and cut off a squad car carrying two of L.A.'s finest. And I promptly got pulled over.<br /><br />I was fully expecting a ticket, and I will admit I deserved one for the fit I was subjecting The Rev. to as I drove. Instead, the officer gave me a mini-lecture on the importance of "being cognizant while operating a motor vehicle." and then directed me to a public parking lot a few blocks away that actually accepted ATM cards. As he pulled away, I turned to The Rev. and said, "You are so laughing on the inside right now, aren't you?" He responded with a laugh, and we found the public parking lot a few minutes later.<br /><br />I did get to see my friend, and due to the courteousness of the staff, they actually directed us to cut the line because I was carrying Lucas. I think she was suprised to see me, and we had a few good minutes to catch up. She mentioned wanting to get back to California, and I hope she does come back. I would be happy to show her around, and I won't get pulled over again.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-32066723405783791542009-03-31T09:08:00.000-07:002009-03-31T16:11:59.515-07:00He may thank me when he is olderA few months ago I wrote about traumatizing my child with a visit to Santa Claus. Spring has arrived in San Diego county, and the Easter Bunny has his official digs at the mall, complete with mechanical bunnies-in-waiting and pots and pots of artificial plants. Perhaps this is the company's disclaimer that everything about the Easter Bunny is fake, because it is pretty easy to get a real looking Santa, but a person who looks like a rabbit, complete with ears and a fuzzy tail usually works for Hugh Hefner and that is simply not age appropriate. Business has been slow in my walks by the hassenfeffer throne, but I am sure the throngs will be out this weekend and next with Easter just around the corner.<br /><br />I have pretty much made up my mind that I will not be taking Lucas to see the bunny, and I blame it all on a costumed pig at the Memphis in May BBQ cooking contest. I wasn't present for the festivities, but my brother attended with several of his friends. For those of you unfamiliar with Memphis in May, it is the city's way of recognizing and honoring a chosen country and an excuse to get drunk and eat roasted pig flesh. And then cap it all off with a symphony on the banks of the Mississippi River. You have to class up the event somehow, and nothing says class but the Memphis Symphony Orchestra playing Mozart to legions of drunken rednecks, frat boys, and families from the 'burbs venturing into the big, bad city. I say that out of jealousy, as I will probably be sunning myself with a glass of chardonnay on my tiny patio and longing for a taste of 'cue when they start to sing, "Ole Man River."<br /><br />One year, my brother attended with several of his close friends, and they were able to get coveted tickets inside one of the competitor's tents, courtesy of friends of my parents. Drinking and eating ensued, and given the pictures I have seen and stories I have heard, more drinking than eating occurred. During the night, someone was making the rounds to the tents dressed in a pink pig costume, which looking back, I find to be a bit grotesque, sort of like Porky Pig being named the official ambassador of a festival celebrating the slaughter and devouring of his people. Given that Memphis in the month of May tends toward the warm and humid, I can only imagine how uncomfortable the person inside the costume must have been. Also, May can be a rainy month, and those who venture down to the event know to wear comfortable shoes and clothes they don't mind getting dirty (except for some women, who insist on open toe sandals and their best summer short/top combo, it is an occasion, you must remember). The pig, or rather the pig costume, looked to have been on the receiving end of a puddle, or perhaps in drunken revelry, the wearer decided to get down in some slop. Whatever the reason, one of Joel's friend eyed the pig and very blandly stated, "That is one dirty ass pig." That statement became a catch phrase of our group of friends, and sometimes, in the middle of a conversation someone would randomly drop the catchphrase and chuckles would ensue.<br /><br />In the past ten years, I have been unable to look at anyone in a costume of that nature, whether it be a team mascot (sorry San Diego Chicken), a company mascot, or a costumed character from a children's show or a cartoon and not be transported back to a hot Memphis night with a bunch of my friends, listening to them tell me the story of the dirty ass pig. SO, maybe, just maybe, one day when Lucas is old enough and he asks me why I never took him to see the Easter Bunny, I may just tell him the Easter Bunny is a dirty pig.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-68101569096444951842009-03-07T22:47:00.000-08:002009-03-07T23:01:01.680-08:00When it rains, it poursI can use all ten fingers and none of my toes to count the number of times friends have come to visit us in San Diego. Given that most of my friends live on the other side of the country, and we all have busy lives, I understand how taking a jaunt over to the left coast might be a little difficult to navigate.<br /><br />Suddenly, however, I have had three dear friends visit in the span of two weeks. Two of them I used to teach with in Nashville, and the other one is an old college friend. Lanita and Melissa know me on a personal and professional level, and their stories about the latest escapades at my old school made me simulataneously question going back into teaching and made me want to jump back into it again with both feet. We had a grand old time driving up the coast, and given that San Diego is so different from Nashville, I thrilled at playing touring guide and showing them all the scenic nooks and crannies along the Pacific Highway. As we drove through La Jolla, they asked about the pronunciation of its name. You must understand that any Southern pronunciation is hard, meaning a name like "eggplant parmigiana" would be prounounced, "Egg plant PARMA JONNA." So, I explained the double "L" pronunciation and they we all decided jointly that it should be pronounced, "La Holla." As in, "Holla back atcha." Yes, we all have our Master's degrees in education and yet we revel in the immature mispronunciation of La Jolla. A fun time was had by all.<br /><br />My friend Teresa is still in San Diego, but is visiting other friends. Our escapades involved wine country and lots of it. It also involved a sick child, and her wonderful, kindred spirit to me came shining through when she looked at Lucas's red, watery eyes, running nose, and drooling mouth and pronounced, "THAT, is a face only a mother could love." It felt to good to laugh hard again, and reminisce about our escapades in Memphis and Nashville. It is always nice to pick up right where we left off.<br /><br />Come see me again! We'll pass a good time.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-32322086596942900742009-03-01T12:58:00.001-08:002009-03-01T13:16:56.856-08:0014 Months and Why I am a KilljoyLucas is 14 months old today. He is officially walking, and I feel like I need to tape record myself telling him "no" because it is all I seem to be doing lately:<br /><br /><br /><br />"Don't stick your hands in the dog's water dish."<br /><br /><br /><br />"Don't lick the cat's tail."<br /><br /><br /><br />"Don't spit out your food."<br /><br /><br /><br />"Don't cram that last two inches of banana in your mouth."<br /><br /><br /><br />"You will not act this way in God's house." This is usually done with a hiss of hot breath in his ear as he tries to wreak havoc in the back pew.<br /><br /><br /><br />"Stop sticking your finger in your nose."<br /><br /><br /><br />"Don't poke the dog in the eye."<br /><br /><br /><br />"Don't lick my hair."<br /><br /><br /><br />"Don't bite me."<br /><br /><br /><br />This morning I was sitting in the back pew, and as it was a communion Sunday, Lucas's babysitter came back and sat with him so I could take the sacrament without him clinging to my hip and trying to stick his finger's in our Lord and Saviour's body and blood. She sat next to me, and since he is going through the stage that if I put him down for a nanosecond he goes into full conniption mode, he refused to let her hold him. Instead he kept reaching out to touch the hair of a visitor in front of us. Given that her hair is to her waist and long, and shimmering, and just beckoning to be stroked, Lucas stuck his paw out to touch it. I took his hand and put it firmly in his lap and told him, "NO." So, he tried again, thinking I would not notice. Again, I took his hand, placed it firmly in his lap, and said, "I said NO." This time the hot breath came in his ear; I felt the spirit of my mother descend upon me, and his lip quivered and poked out, just like I used to do when I didn't get my way. Then my mother really took hold of me, "That's right, poke it out REALLY far. I think you are going to step on it." It quivered for about 8 seconds and then he was distracted by the pretty blonde sitting behind us. At least he was distracted until I passed him off so I could go up the altar. His screaming pretty much distracted me for the entire sacrament. We could have gone into the nursery, but I am a firm believer in not using the nursery, because, hey, it is full of toys and FUN, and well, given a choice between playing with some blocks or sitting in the back of the church, YOU ARE SITTING IN CHURCH. I never had that choice when I was growing up, and on more than one occasion I was introduced to my mother's hot breath when I was not cooperating. I feel bad enough letting him have a sippy and some cookie during the service, but it allows me some peace, allows me to hear part of the service, and keeps him from pointing up the altar and screeching, "Hi, Daddy!"pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-68709932397756606832008-12-10T12:03:00.000-08:002008-12-10T12:30:52.073-08:00Tis the season to be tortured...I only have one memory of sitting on Santa's lap. My mother had enrolled me in ballet lessons and at Christmas time the ballet teacher gave us gift certificates for McDonald's and a visit from St. Nick. All was well until I had to sit in his lap, and he put me down after I screamed for bloody mercy. That was it, no more Santa lap sitting for me, at least until I was an obnoxious 16 year old and my best friend Lisa and I drove to the mall to be, well, obnoxious 16 year olds. I am sure that picture is somewhere. The one of me in my little black leotard with tears streaking down my face is hopefully lost forever.<br /><br />Now that we have Lucas, I figured I could introduce him to Santa at an early age and he would be okay with a once a year meeting. Last week I donned him in a snowman sweater and took him to the mall for his introduction.<br /><br />Three clicks of the camera and he was finished.<br /><br />The first picture was of a totally deadpan face. Santa was all smiles and jolly and Lucas was looking at all of the cooing adults like he was the only sane one in the room. The second snap shot turned out to be a profile shot of a totally serious Lucas looking up at a smiling Santa. The third shot was him looking right at me with a quivering lip, ready to turn on the hoses. We picked the second picture for the "official" portrait and away we went to finish off our errands. He has been pretty tame for the rest of time, but he likes to smile and point at all of the Christmas trees, as well as the garish lawn decorations, lights, candy canes, snowmen, and other assorted secular Christmas debris that looks strangely out of sorts against a back drop of San Diego palm trees.<br /><br />My wonderful mother-in-law sent him two Christmas books, and when we first received them, he enjoyed looking at both of them with us. One is a Christmas alphabet and the other is a cardboard book that tells the Nativity story while playing a tinny version of "O Little Town of Bethlehem." As earlier stated, Lucas has been fine with both of them, and will happily sit on the floor while I am checking email, and "read" to his heart's content.<br /><br />This morning I was at the computer and he was playing with an assortment of toys. It was really quiet in the room, and suddenly he reached for the Bethlehem book to look at it. As soon as he opened it the music started blaring and it totally scared the poop out of him. Totally not expecting to be surprised, he looked up at me and started this hysterical, hyperventilating screaming fit, complete with fat tears and gasps of breath. I thought he had pinched himself on something and I start to hold him and rock him and tell him it's going to be okay, "Here, let's sit here quietly and look at your music book..." WRONG PLAN, MOM, WHY DON'T YOU JUST GO AHEAD AND SCAR ME FOREVER! It took a good 15 minute walk around the house, looking at every picture on the wall just to distract him back to calmness, and now when we sit in the office playing, he looks at the top of the desk, just to make sure the book is still there and won't come flying off to eat his face. Part of me wants to laugh at him, because it was sort of funny, but the other part of me totally gets his fear. The five year old in the black leotard that lives waaaaay in the back of my head. Thank goodness he is too young to remember any of this.<br /><br />I have about three months to prepare him for the Easter Bunny.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-78538398162277633782008-12-05T18:56:00.001-08:002008-12-05T19:25:12.811-08:00BakingLast year I totally understood the passage, "And Mary, who was great with child..." I can say that because I was great with child and all I did in the month of December was work and then come home and sit in the bathtub, gazing at my enormous pregnant belly. I probably walked enough the month of December to to equal the walk to Bethlehem, and I can happily say I did not give birth in a stable, there was room for me at the inn.<br /><br /><br /><br />We did not "celebrate" Christmas last year in the traditional sense, either the SoCal way (tamales) or the deep fried Southern way (fried turkey, divinity, anything with pecans or marshmallows), nor did we celebrate in our German heritage way <em>(springerle, lebkuchen)</em><em>.</em> We just sort of skipped over all of it, because I was too busy sitting in the bathtub, working, and not getting the baby's nursery ready because, well, I was working or sitting in a bathtub. We skipped lights, the tree, and anything involving getting out decorations. The only thing we did do was pull out a tiny advent wreath and set up a nativity I bought that was made in Mexico. Unfortunately, I did not check the nativity very carefully because all of the pieces are made of pewter, but one of the shepherds is four times the size of everyone else and he just overpowers the whole scene. When we set the nativity up, we put him off to the side, at a distance, so that he just <em>looks</em> the same size as everyone else. It is not a very effective special effect, but it makes me feel better about spending $40 on a nativity set that is missing an important part of the nativity account. At least baby Jesus wasn't four times too big. That would have been embarassing. A resounding focal point, but embarassing just the same.<br /><br /><br /><br />Well, well, well, it is now a year later and we have a son who is obsessed with anything that twinkles or resembles a tree. Of course, it is his first Christmas! Of course we must pull out all stops! I must make tamales! I must bake! I must decorate the house in an age appropriate manner for an 11 month old! So, tonight I have started the baking: spice stars and coconut macaroons. The problem is that there are too many recipes and not enough time. Tamales are an all day project, and a project that is handicapped by a baby who only naps from 9 a.m. to 11 a.m. on a good day. Baking can be done at night, but once dinner is made and the kitchen is cleaned for the 89th time, I really don't want to pull out the flour and sugar and make another mess (conveniently, just like the one I have in the kitchen as we speak). And did I mention I am still working full time? Sitting in the bath tub and staring at my post post-partum belly sounds good right about now. So, I will have to cull and I will have to decide what to bake and what to file away for next year. Maybe it will only be chicken tamales and not chicken and beef and pork. Maybe it will be springerle and not lebkuchen. Maybe I should just go to Trader Joe's and empty the boxes of store bought cookies into my cookie tins and pretend to wipe sweat off my brow and then go sit in the tub.<br /><br />Oh, but then I eat a homemade macaroon, still warm from the oven and my nature that just adores all that is homemade won't let me. So I will have to get organized and make lists, not excuses and get the baking done and get the decorating done and get the nativity set out and then leave it all out until Easter.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-61440734695190905172008-11-23T20:25:00.001-08:002008-11-23T20:40:44.911-08:00First Thanksgiving<div>Thanksgiving used to be my favorite holiday. That was before I started working retail. Now, I enjoy a love/hate relationship with Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving at our little house in Nashville were legendary affairs, usually involving three turkeys, two kinds of stuffing, four vegetables, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, cranberry relish and cranberry chutney, 6 pies and a pumpkin cheesecake. Don't forget the two trays of assorted vegetables and the shrimp mold. I would cook for two weeks and relish feeding my extended family. Now, I just think about eating the turkey t.v. dinners. </div><br /><div> </div><br /><div>Thanksgiving in California has been quite different. There was the year of the bbq bird, where I cried all the way home, and there was last year, where I was one month away from giving birth, and happy that someone else was cooking the turkey. It was also the first Thanksgiving where I ate ham. </div><br /><div> </div><br /><div>This year it will be a small family affair, and Lucas will be introduced to turkey and all the trimmings. And it will be to bed early, not to get up to look for bargains, but to sell them to early morning shoppers. But on Thanksgiving day, I will be thankful for my immediate family, a loving husband who is more adept at housekeeping than I am, and our little boy, who we prayed for on so many Thanksgivings in years past. Six years ago, we were visiting a fertility specialist who was optimistic about my chances of conception, and then, on Thanksgiving day, with a house full of family, I learned I was not pregnant, even after all of the treatments we had endured for the previous few months. Now, looking at my precious, precious little boy, I know he was totally worth wait, and I am excited to see his little face light up when he takes his first bite of turkey and dressing. He has made every holiday this year my favorite holiday. </div>pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-24961386047364695072008-11-04T16:26:00.000-08:002008-11-04T18:00:47.334-08:00The House of 5th AvenueI like to drive around and look at old houses. I suspended my expeditions this summer due to gas prices, and thankfully, now that gas is less than $4 a gallon here, I am back to driving through my favorite parts of historic Escondido. I think this is a trait that I inherited from my father, who spent much of my childhood pulling off highways and byways to read historical markers, and who took us to most of the antebellum plantations in the lower Mississippi Delta. Some of the grand dames were in fabulous shape; I always remember the ones that were crumbling.<br /><br />Most of the historic homes in Escondido are turn of the century Victorians, built near Grand Avenue when Escondido was becoming a booming farming community. Sunkist had a huge packing plant here, and the citrus went out on trains to tables east of the Mississippi. Old Escondido has wide streets and bumpy sidewalks, mainly due to the roots of old trees, a happy sign of an established neighborhood. Whenever I see old trees I think about old homes and the shade those trees provided in the days before air conditioning.<br /><br />One of the homes in Escondido pulls at my heart whenever I drive its street. From what I can gather, it used to belong to Escondido's blacksmith, and is a white clapboard Victorian with a double front porch. It is also in an utter state of disrepair, with clapboard and shingles missing. The gable on the third floor is missing a window, and there are two front doors. I don't think the door with the badly hung security door was in the original schematic. It makes me sad to see that house, especially when I think about what it must have looked like when it was first built, and the generations that grew up within its walls. I think homes develop a spirit or perhaps a personality, and I see a once proud lady now hidden behind a wall of grime, hair uncombed, teeth missing, and in need of a new dress. Maybe there will be a for sale sign and someone with deep pockets will restore it. Until then, I will just keep driving by it, curious about her current inhabitants and wondering what her former inhabitants would now think.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-40769219312307295112008-11-02T14:47:00.000-08:002008-11-02T14:57:54.648-08:0010 months and the value of 24 karat goldIt was a big week this past week at our house. The Rev. was lectured for giving Lucas hotdogs (cut up of course), and then I promptly gave him another hot dog last night because it was late and I was tired. His appetite is expanding at the same rate we are introducing foods to him, and today he ate: cereal, an animal cookie, a cinnamon bun from a bakery, a few bites of chocolate yogurt, toast, and some potato. Tonight, I will be happy if we can throw a green vegetable into that mix. He has also added meatballs and minestrone to the list of food that he can eat by himself. He is way beyond being fed, and insists on feeding himself, which means feeding the dog.<br /><br />Halloween was pretty uneventful. The Rev. snapped one picture and then the camera died, so we are awaiting pictures from a friend. Halloween ended and All Saint's Day began with a trip to the emergency animal clinic for our cat. Long story short, I found him outside and thought he had been hit by a car. Once we got him to the vet we learned that he had a urinary tract blockage and had not gone to the bathroom in about 4 days. He should have been dead, and at that point we should have said, "It's been nice having you cat, and now you get to walk with God." However, I decided to see if the cat could be fixed to pee 24 karat gold. The cat is fixed but no gold, not even 10 karat. He gets to come home tomorrow.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-18144213393982916042008-10-14T20:43:00.000-07:002008-10-14T20:55:00.829-07:00Selfishly, It breaks my heartLucas is a daddy's boy. Not daddy's boy in the terms of dragging a fishing pole behind his father's shadow (but I anticipate that in about five years), but daddy's boy in that the is acutely aware of when his father is in the house, and acutely aware of when he is not in his father's arms. Did I mention he is acutely aware?<br /><br />The other day, Aaron woke up late and dashed out of the house or else risk being late for chapel and his catechism class. He came home two hours later to eat breakfast, and both Lucas and I were surprised to see him come through the door. Aaron came in just as we sat down to watch Regis and Kelly do their morning monologue (life is so exciting when I work the late shift!), and chatted with me as he put down his briefcase and keys. He started to walk across the room and Lucas started wailing and reaching for him. Like I was poking him or something. <br /><br />Tonight, he went down early, after a very busy day of rattling the baby gates, banging on the screen door, and getting his head stuck in rails of chairs. Aaron was teaching a late class, and Lucas woke up minutes after he came in and started screaming. I went in and got him so Aaron could eat dinner, and for the next fifteen minutes, Aaron stood behind me eating and talking to Lucas, who was wailing at the top of his lungs. He eventually wound up in daddy's arms, and fifteen minutes later, the two of them were sitting in the arm chair, Lucas clutching a bottle of water and Aaron reading the paper. The boy was happy as a clam, and was soon cooing himself to sleep. He fell asleep with a smile on his face, just content with the world that he was sitting with his papa. I told Aaron that it selfishly broke my heart, to see the two of them like that, knowing that when he was crying all he wanted was his daddy. But at the same time, I felt so blessed that Lucas could sit on his lap and fall asleep as Aaron's heart was breaking because it was so full of happiness.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-79079957951240965962008-10-09T11:01:00.000-07:002008-10-09T11:05:48.031-07:00Creep Them, Crawl ThemLucas is creeping, and by creeping I mean making dangerous swerves, leaps, and jumps from one piece of furniture to the other, all while wearing he adorable new shoes with pirates on them. So fierce, that one.<br /><br />He is thrilled with his new found mobility, and has taken this skill to new levels by pulling himself up and then trying to turn around to grab at the ottoman. The look on his face is one of concentration mixed with a sense of "do I try to do this, or will I fall?" We pushed the ottoman closer and he crowed in triumph as he managed to turn and reach his chubby hands for the magazine that was just within his reach. <br /><br />We have now gated the house, and he manages to pull the forlorn jailbird look off quite nicely as he rattles the bars on the gate to the dining room. Look out, here comes trouble!pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-83460273094923813802008-10-08T10:43:00.000-07:002008-10-08T10:58:51.399-07:00Vote No on Prop FallThe Santa Ana winds are blowing. For everyone who does not know about the area of high pressure that forms over the deserts in Utah and Nevada and blows dry, hot wind into San Diego, that means trouble. Trouble because the risk of fire goes up exponentially (like last year when three wildfires started simultaneously and went uncontrolled for days), my skin and hair wither and die, and my internal seasonal clock gets all our of whack because, HELLO, it is October and time for fall leaves and cool evenings and beef stew and cozy sweaters. Unfortunately, cozy sweaters, boots, jeans, beef stew, fall leaves, and cool evenings are denied and delayed because at this moment I am wearing a tank top, shorts, and flip-flops. And it is supposed to be 97 degrees today in Escondido. It means I have to keep shaving my legs and getting pedicures. It means my beef stew becomes a beef taco with cool lettuce and salsa, which I enjoy as I run my air conditioning. <br /><br />Oh, I can decorate my house with pumpkins and fall leaves, and bake any amount of apple pies and gourd shaped cookies, but it means nothing and is lost when I step outside to a dry oven of brown grass and palm trees waving over the tumbleweeds and scrub brush. It actually rained last weekend, but the cool smell of wet concrete lasted about 10 seconds. And then it was time to break out the sunglasses and the the baby pool. <br /><br />California just asked the federal government for 7 billion dollars to bail them out of their credit crunch, and with all that pork, there better be some beef stew in there, as well as a pair of boots and a wool sweater. Throw in some sugar maples that are red, yellow, and orange, and I may be able to tolerate living in year round summer.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-29856303575279748982008-10-01T19:53:00.000-07:002008-10-01T20:14:10.637-07:00On EatingHappy 9 month birthday to Lucas. Nine months ago we were celebrating the New Year and a new baby. Now, we marvel at his ability to crawl, and how he has memorized the path the dog's water dish. Take a bath in the duck tub and in the dog's dish. Lovely.<br /><br />Now that the boy is 9 months old, we can begin a slow transition to table foods. Yeah, right. This is going to be painful, as he DOES NOT LIKE the jarred chunky stuff. I'm sorry, but baby food is disgusting. Perhaps it goes to show how degraded our own adult tastebuds have become due to years of exposure to salt, sugar, and their evil counterparts: monosodium glutamate and high fructose corn syrup. Some days I can be a culinary snob and demand organic shade grown chocolate that is 73% cacao. Other days I am ready to stick my face in box of Captain Crunch. Yeah, that's right, and if it is peanut butter Captain Crunch, then all the better.<br /><br />Today, for example, I opened a jar of garden chicken pasta dinner. It smelled pretty good, and it even looked marginally appetizing, but the taste. My lord, the taste was like watery, chickeny, carroty water. It needed salt...and Tabasco. And the little nodules of pasta reminded me of my scarred childhood when I was eating a certain brand of soup that comes in a red and white can. The soup was beef and barley, and my mother teased me that the barley kernels, all swollen from their bath in monosodium glutamate beef water, were bugs. "Ewww," she said," You're eating bugs!" I looked into this jar of food and my first thought was, "I am feeding Lucas bugs today. Well, here we go, open up for me lil' buddy!"<br /><br />Lucas did not cotton to his pasta dinner. In fact, blood curdling screaming coupled with visceral gagging is probably a better description. He would swallow the goo, but the little pasta nodules would fall to the front of his mouth, making him look like he had four molars growing from the front of his gums. Not an attractive moment for a child who takes cherubic photos. So, I caved to prevent another child from being scarred with a scary food association, and I switched to pureed fruit, which he greedily ate. He finished his dinner with a teething cookie that was gummed to the softness of wet cardboard and then dropped on the floor for the dog to polish off. By that time, it was time for my own dinner, so I balanced Lucas on my lap while I ate my chicken and pasta. Lucas has long held a fascination with whatever Aaron and I are eating, so I broke off a tiny strand of spaghetti and put it in his mouth.<br /><br />And he ate.<br /><br />Not only did he gum and swallow spaghetti, he ate onion and mushrooms and kept trying to stick his paws in my dish to feed himself. The spaghetti he held in his fat little fist didn't quite make it to his mouth, but he did rather enjoy the rest of my meal, and even tried a bit of melted cheese on flatbread. Any suggestions for the 54 bottles of baby food I have in my pantry?pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-69412507095641996882008-09-29T10:37:00.000-07:002008-09-29T10:50:42.031-07:00Seriously, why buy toys?When playing with Lucas, we have learned that his attention span requires at least 6 different toys to keep his hands, mouth, and brain occupied and away from my fingers, my hair, my earrings, or any paper good I may hold in my possession. The fascination with those toys lasts about a second each, and then he is on to the fun, grown up stuff that we would not think in a million years to give him. We have found new uses for the millions of Mardi Gras cups I brought home two years ago, as he likes to play with them in the tub and bang them on his changing table. They keep his hands occupied while I try to change his diaper. Let's just say the boy has discovered his parts, and that's fine, it's just when his plumbing is covered with poop, we want to keep everyone as clean as possible.<br /><br />He has also developed a fascination with rubber spatulas, which make great teething toys, but only until his attention is turned towards the dog's food dish and he decides it is time to drop the spatula and the little tupperware filled with black pepper pods (what a fun noisemaker!), and take a bath in the dog's water dish. The church bulletin is a nice distraction too, until mom takes it away from him for making too much noise in church and his ear piercing wails of disagreement force a hasty exit to the church entrance where we hang out with the ushers for the rest of the service. We have also found that washrags, flip-flops, and coffee cups are fun toys until mom the kill joy takes away all the fun. The metal mixing bowl dad gave him lasted for a few minutes because we want to prolong the drumset for at least 15 years.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-5747327596413994422008-09-26T07:47:00.000-07:002008-09-26T09:21:46.142-07:00One Armed BanditI wish I could say that the above title means I won big in Las Vegas, or maybe even one of the Indian casinoes nearby, but it refers to my newly developed ability to accomplish my to do list with one hand. No, the other is not tied behind my back. My other arm is wrapped around a 25 pound monkey who now clings to my neck and shirt when I hold him, which is ALWAYS because although he can now crawl, being carried everywhere is so much faster than being a quadriped. Albeit a quadriped who is still a wee bit unsteady and has a propensity for bumping into things.<br /><br />I can now mix and bake a cake with one hand, complete my entire makeup routine with one hand, and complete a variety of other household duties while balancing a baby on my hip. One hand hold the mascara wand, the other hand holds the tube at a crazy angle to prevent Lucas's first introduction to the wide world of cosmetics. I don't think his father would be pleased. I realize that such activities are probably limiting Lucas's development, but the thought of cleaning cake batter, eye-makeup, and wads of chewed up paper out of his chubby fists far out-weigh any developmental need. He's a smart kid. I'm sure he'll catch up.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22157259.post-71913477229627455712008-09-18T09:01:00.000-07:002008-09-18T09:08:31.349-07:00CommandoWell, let the baby-proofing commence. The boy has started to scoot and crawl. For the longest time he would roll to what he wanted, which I give credit to a developing intellect. I guess he figure it would be <em>more fun</em> to roll 180 degrees to get his toy than to just scoot a few inches and grab it. Now he looks alarmingly like a mini-marine (especially when daddy puts him in his camo pants), as he crawls around on his elbows.<br /><br />With the crawling comes something new: bumping his head. The look of surprise registers on his face, and if we don't look at him he won't cry. If we do, it's all over. How quickly they learn, the little manipulators. The joys I have to look forward to when he is a teenager. But he won't let me suck on his fat little cheeks when he is 15, so I have to get it all in right now.pastorschickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07649433973724053804noreply@blogger.com0