I've been thinking about blogging -- about my blog -- and it seems to me that everyone should have a project to work on. A big project, like a blog, really gives a lot of meaning to life. Projects aren't just for individual people either. A big St. Louis Arch or even massive Ozymandias-style sculpture can really unite a community. A big enough project can unite an organization, a nation... even a planet. Honestly, the survival of the group depends on having a long range goal. Day-to-day affairs like taking out the trash so that breathing remains fun, electing honorable treasurers to that the group fund embezzlement ceases, and setting CEO salaries so that lavish lifestyles continue are all necessary, but these don't inspire; instead they often divide a group. A long range goal keeps the whole group whole.
Yes, people can be divided against themselves. I want to watch TV, I need to finish my homework, I need to clean the bathroom, I ran out of clean underwear late last week, my boss wants this typed up by at 3:15 pm at the latest, unless magic elves have refilled the refrigerator I can't eat dinner until I shop, this novel is three weeks overdue at the library and I'm not even halfway through it, I need a nap! These little projects all peck away at the fun parts of life. They can hypnotize you, steal away your motivation, and leave you as a sad and deflated balloon on the floor of life. A big long term project like crafting a quilt, writing a novel, or rebuilding a 1966 Shelby Cobra 427 makes the rest of life worthwhile.
A big inspiring project becomes the focal point of your life. Suddenly the drudgery of dishwashing offers free mental time for developing the first sentence of the next chapter. Time waiting for the spouse to place each hair in perfect position becomes an opportunity to look over the engine block. Soaking in the rays of the television's light can be accompanied by cutting strips of fabric. Suddenly the little hassles go undetectable. The long road seems so much smoother when your eyes are on the distant monument.
Big is the key. Inspiring. The key is to withhold gratification and persevere at a lengthy but enjoyable project. Fanatically cheering for a sporting team can have a similar effect, but it doesn't allow for everyone to put effort toward the task. Spectators are good, but the more people involved in the task, the easier it is to keep interest and support.
Organizations fall apart when there work is complete. Look at the Federalists: their purpose was to get the United States Constitution accepted. That complete... they didn't have anything to hold them together. Disintegration.
Look at Athens versus Sparta. Athens was this wonderful democracy where everyone was at least tolerably content. Sparta had nothing but a long-term project: military power. Every aspect of Spartan society was directed toward that goal. Their happiness may be debatable, but everyone knew they were helping toward a big project.
Wars, like sports, unite, but they also bring their own problems. The modern world leaves a lot less room for the noble war that everyone will stand behind. Choosing a war as your binding element can be risky: what if you lose? Even worse (or better?!?), wars must end eventually. I'm guessing that the Hundred Years war didn't feature a lot of cheering to the yell "We're gonna win this one" after a few generations of battle.
For better ideas, look at the Apollo Project. "A man on the moon." Okay, it was sort of a race, but it had a lot of the "us against ourselves" element that makes the best group project. If you're asking "Can we really achieve this?" and answering "I bet we can!" then you've found a great project.
What this planet really needs is a big wonderful inspiring project. A world quilt (probably figuratively rather than literally) that we can all help build or knit. Something difficult, yet possible, that will produce something wonderful. Something we can all dream about... together.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Undo
Isn’t it about time for the capabilities of computer technology to cross over into reality? Take the search function: I want that for everyday conversation. While my brain is quite able to recall that a great quote or story exists, I know that it never seems to reproduce the exact wording. I’ve learned that my best guess is usually pretty poor. When I’m writing, I might have the leisure to search for the quote; but again, my brain may have no idea where I actually saw it in the first place. “It was on a web page with a blue background” – frequently the best it can manage – is a bit lacking in useful details. I want those computer designer people to offer me a way to search all the winding caverns of my mind for those details that are shoved in there somewhere. I know the information is there because a couple hours (or days) later, when the moment is long gone, my brain will rush up with tail wagging and drop the exact location at my feet.
I’d be happy with many other useful computer commands – spell check, cut and paste, find all – but the one I want most is “undo.”
Trial and error is my way of life. Sure, I do research and development in engineering as a career, so I’m trained in that sort of thing, but I’ve been into trial and error since I was young. When I was old enough to wander around Six Flags by myself, I developed my own strategy for getting around the park. Instead of holding a map and trying to match it to the park, I preferred to rush from one “You are here” sign to the next. If I went in the wrong direction, I could tell right away and correct my course. Given a choice, I’ll think while I’m acting rather than before. I don’t mind correcting my course on the way… but I want to be in motion.
The biggest problem with trial and error is that whole error part. Big bad errors usually don’t have an “undo” ability in the real world.
On Friday night, we ate dinner out. I didn’t notice the specials of the day – in particular a chicken with spicy tomatilla sauce – until after I’d placed my order. If I’d had a free “undo” function, I would have used it then. Rewind a couple minutes and order again. “Undo” would be nice for trivial mistakes like that.
Even with a little bit of a cost, “undo” would be awesome for those moments where I misjudged someone’s thoughts or didn’t take the time to think my words though and saw, even as the words were emerging, that I was offending my audience. Words of apology are more of a bandage than a miraculous healing. It would be so much better to make the moment never to have happened. For a low price, I’d use an “undo” to clear up those mistakes.
There are moments, though, when I would give anything to have an “undo.”
“Is anyone down here?” T called from the top of the stairs. “No, I don’t see anyone,” I replied from the basement. I should’ve known there was a problem when she said, “Daddy, stop being silly.” If I hadn’t been moving laundry from the washing machine, standing with my back to her, I would’ve seen her red eyes and thin lips. But I didn’t until after she continued: “Daddy, I don’t know where my DS is!”
Each year, Santa wraps each child’s big present in gold paper. You know when you’re opening your special present. T’s DS was her gold present this year. For her birthday, just this past Tuesday, she’d gotten a new game for it, a charger, and a cute little blue case. She’d been taking pictures with the DS since the hour it arrived, but we had just figured out how to get them onto the computer. She takes her Brain Age test daily, and has spent a lot of time personalizing everything. When her brothers ignore her too much, she’s as likely to go play DS as read, these days. And because her DS is important to her, she likes to carry it wherever she goes.
Saturday morning, T brought her DS to a fundraiser breakfast at Applebee’s. When we had all gone to load plates with pancakes, I had covered her DS case with her coat, leaving just a corner sticking out. It seemed prudent. That turned out to be the last time anyone saw it.
Right after T announced the loss, my wife got the phone book out, but T and I got in the car instead, coatless despite the cold. Thinking while acting is what I do. We drove. When we were nearly to Applebee’s, I had T call home. No success with Mommy’s phone calls. We’d have to find the DS in person, if we were going to find it at all.
The Applebee’s people were great, and the table we’d been at was unoccupied. T crawled all over the floor in her search, but there was nowhere for her DS to be hidden. It wasn’t there. I couldn’t look at T’s eyes as she started sobbing, so I hugged her to me and tried not to choke as I gave the Applebee’s employee our phone number and a description. T calmed enough to tell him her user name and the message and every detail of her loved DS. The guy suggested we contact the fundraiser organizers; they might have picked it up. “I’ve seen it happen before…”
I carried T out to the van… I’m not sure she could see clearly.
As we started pulling away, T cried, “I forgot to tell him that the box around my user name is pink. It’s a pink box!” Maybe if she described every detail perfectly, it would reappear.
I know that lost game systems don’t reappear. Once they are gone… well, I couldn’t tell T that no amount of longing makes them return. And I blamed myself, partly for covering the DS instead of picking it up, partly for not making her leave it in the van.
I so would’ve pressed “undo” then. I would have clicked back and back even if the price was years off my own life.
Back home, we all sat on the floor and T cried. I couldn’t even speak, there was nothing useful to say. I just sat with her.
The story ends well: after some phone calls, we found T’s DS in the hands of the fundraiser people. This evening we picked it up; it has returned. T has learned a lesson about responsibility, too, without consequences too painful to bear. She’s wiser now, having experienced loss. I would have spared her all of those lessons if I could’ve, which probably wouldn’t be in her best interest.
If we could “undo” too many events, I suppose that personal responsibility would suffer. It would probably be worse than the video game “restart that game” mentality. But to the good, it would encourage creativity, especially of the trial-and-error variety. I’ve decided that life should have a training mode, where we can learn our limits, develop responsibility, and suffer only token pain. What we all need is a training mode.
I just realized that my role, as T’s parent, is to shelter her, partly, from this unforgiving reality where we live. I need to be the computer designer guy. Imperfect as I am, I’m her “undo” function, to the best of my ability.
I’d be happy with many other useful computer commands – spell check, cut and paste, find all – but the one I want most is “undo.”
Trial and error is my way of life. Sure, I do research and development in engineering as a career, so I’m trained in that sort of thing, but I’ve been into trial and error since I was young. When I was old enough to wander around Six Flags by myself, I developed my own strategy for getting around the park. Instead of holding a map and trying to match it to the park, I preferred to rush from one “You are here” sign to the next. If I went in the wrong direction, I could tell right away and correct my course. Given a choice, I’ll think while I’m acting rather than before. I don’t mind correcting my course on the way… but I want to be in motion.
The biggest problem with trial and error is that whole error part. Big bad errors usually don’t have an “undo” ability in the real world.
On Friday night, we ate dinner out. I didn’t notice the specials of the day – in particular a chicken with spicy tomatilla sauce – until after I’d placed my order. If I’d had a free “undo” function, I would have used it then. Rewind a couple minutes and order again. “Undo” would be nice for trivial mistakes like that.
Even with a little bit of a cost, “undo” would be awesome for those moments where I misjudged someone’s thoughts or didn’t take the time to think my words though and saw, even as the words were emerging, that I was offending my audience. Words of apology are more of a bandage than a miraculous healing. It would be so much better to make the moment never to have happened. For a low price, I’d use an “undo” to clear up those mistakes.
There are moments, though, when I would give anything to have an “undo.”
“Is anyone down here?” T called from the top of the stairs. “No, I don’t see anyone,” I replied from the basement. I should’ve known there was a problem when she said, “Daddy, stop being silly.” If I hadn’t been moving laundry from the washing machine, standing with my back to her, I would’ve seen her red eyes and thin lips. But I didn’t until after she continued: “Daddy, I don’t know where my DS is!”
Each year, Santa wraps each child’s big present in gold paper. You know when you’re opening your special present. T’s DS was her gold present this year. For her birthday, just this past Tuesday, she’d gotten a new game for it, a charger, and a cute little blue case. She’d been taking pictures with the DS since the hour it arrived, but we had just figured out how to get them onto the computer. She takes her Brain Age test daily, and has spent a lot of time personalizing everything. When her brothers ignore her too much, she’s as likely to go play DS as read, these days. And because her DS is important to her, she likes to carry it wherever she goes.
Saturday morning, T brought her DS to a fundraiser breakfast at Applebee’s. When we had all gone to load plates with pancakes, I had covered her DS case with her coat, leaving just a corner sticking out. It seemed prudent. That turned out to be the last time anyone saw it.
Right after T announced the loss, my wife got the phone book out, but T and I got in the car instead, coatless despite the cold. Thinking while acting is what I do. We drove. When we were nearly to Applebee’s, I had T call home. No success with Mommy’s phone calls. We’d have to find the DS in person, if we were going to find it at all.
The Applebee’s people were great, and the table we’d been at was unoccupied. T crawled all over the floor in her search, but there was nowhere for her DS to be hidden. It wasn’t there. I couldn’t look at T’s eyes as she started sobbing, so I hugged her to me and tried not to choke as I gave the Applebee’s employee our phone number and a description. T calmed enough to tell him her user name and the message and every detail of her loved DS. The guy suggested we contact the fundraiser organizers; they might have picked it up. “I’ve seen it happen before…”
I carried T out to the van… I’m not sure she could see clearly.
As we started pulling away, T cried, “I forgot to tell him that the box around my user name is pink. It’s a pink box!” Maybe if she described every detail perfectly, it would reappear.
I know that lost game systems don’t reappear. Once they are gone… well, I couldn’t tell T that no amount of longing makes them return. And I blamed myself, partly for covering the DS instead of picking it up, partly for not making her leave it in the van.
I so would’ve pressed “undo” then. I would have clicked back and back even if the price was years off my own life.
Back home, we all sat on the floor and T cried. I couldn’t even speak, there was nothing useful to say. I just sat with her.
The story ends well: after some phone calls, we found T’s DS in the hands of the fundraiser people. This evening we picked it up; it has returned. T has learned a lesson about responsibility, too, without consequences too painful to bear. She’s wiser now, having experienced loss. I would have spared her all of those lessons if I could’ve, which probably wouldn’t be in her best interest.
If we could “undo” too many events, I suppose that personal responsibility would suffer. It would probably be worse than the video game “restart that game” mentality. But to the good, it would encourage creativity, especially of the trial-and-error variety. I’ve decided that life should have a training mode, where we can learn our limits, develop responsibility, and suffer only token pain. What we all need is a training mode.
I just realized that my role, as T’s parent, is to shelter her, partly, from this unforgiving reality where we live. I need to be the computer designer guy. Imperfect as I am, I’m her “undo” function, to the best of my ability.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Be a grammarbuilder
Dude, I'm never gonna be a grammar snob. I'm all about experimental grammatics. Try out new ideas, I say. Do the extreme grammar thing. I mean, without some kinda deconstruction and experimentation, we're gonna end up with a dead and rotting language… I get that. I'm never gonna go all Samuel Johnson on you. (Note: Dr. Johnson is the guy to blame for the idea that English should be a stable museum piece of a language. Before he stapled down the rules, spelling was more like a game everyone could play.) But but but you gotta know what it is that you're doing or you'll end up misunderstood. Just like if you go bench 200 lbs without working up to it -- you'll strain a tendon, or even get your rib cage squashed -- so it is with grammar. You gotta build up to the tough stuff. Work out; be strong.
The internet totally rules as a place to get your grammar on: Facebook, blogs, mySpace, all of that. Fly your new punctuation and a gazillion people might go gliding along behind you. You can get instant feedback from the neighbors, from Neverland, and from anywhere in between. To make this the grammar-Eden it could be, we need people to have the right attitudes: people understanding how much words matter. And what's the only way to change attitudes, you ask. Viral campaigns, I shout back. Toss these phrases at your retinas.
Be grammar strong with tight sentences, bold punctuation, and clean spelling. Be understood.
Check out my tight sentence structure. I'm a grammarbuilder.
My punctuation is totally ripped. I'm a grammarbuilder.
Be kind to others: keep your flabby grammar hidden.
Keep your grammar taut, even on Facebook. Grammar builders.
Without my daily workout, I'd be a grammar-wuss.
Get a load of these grammar-guns.
People, we have to spatter the Internet with sayings like these and get grammar cool again. Or hot. Whatever means "totally rockin'" in your lingo. Go forth and grammar-ply.
(Wow, in my teen years I'd've never guessed that I'd be slopping out a foundation for an English-wide grammar movement, but here I am today doing just that.)
The internet totally rules as a place to get your grammar on: Facebook, blogs, mySpace, all of that. Fly your new punctuation and a gazillion people might go gliding along behind you. You can get instant feedback from the neighbors, from Neverland, and from anywhere in between. To make this the grammar-Eden it could be, we need people to have the right attitudes: people understanding how much words matter. And what's the only way to change attitudes, you ask. Viral campaigns, I shout back. Toss these phrases at your retinas.
Be grammar strong with tight sentences, bold punctuation, and clean spelling. Be understood.
Check out my tight sentence structure. I'm a grammarbuilder.
My punctuation is totally ripped. I'm a grammarbuilder.
Be kind to others: keep your flabby grammar hidden.
Keep your grammar taut, even on Facebook. Grammar builders.
Without my daily workout, I'd be a grammar-wuss.
Get a load of these grammar-guns.
People, we have to spatter the Internet with sayings like these and get grammar cool again. Or hot. Whatever means "totally rockin'" in your lingo. Go forth and grammar-ply.
(Wow, in my teen years I'd've never guessed that I'd be slopping out a foundation for an English-wide grammar movement, but here I am today doing just that.)
Monday, January 18, 2010
To Read or Not To Read
Once upon a time, for a little less than two years, I was the father of only one child. Dear F was the center of my life and, while it was in no way a carefree existence, I did not have to spend time debating certain decisions. If a conflict arose between what would be best for Fox and what would be best for me, well, F won. F wants the last muffin, F gets the last muffin.
Then came T…
Then came Q…
Part of our bedtime ritual is “the reading of the picture books” followed by “the reading of the chapter books.” When the children were little, they each chose two picture books and I would read Q’s first (shortest attention span), the T’s, and finally F’s and then finish with the chapter book that I chose myself. Easy as… except F decided that this wasn’t really fair (children are great at measuring fairness. I wonder if a system of teaching mathematics at schools – even up through calculus – could be built upon this ability) and so we devised a new household order: Q’s books were first one night, then T’s the next, and then F’s the next. The good news about this complicated system was that the children themselves kept track of whose turn came next and rigidly enforced it. (In fact, having 3 or more children made this easier. If only 2 were involved, I’m guessing that they’d both remember it was their turn every night.)
Now that the children are ever so much older and more mature, they squabble about chapter books instead of picture books. I choose the picture books and parts of my audience come and go as they please. Picture book time is mostly Q’s time these days. Chapter books, though, are selected by the children in turn. All problems solved? Naïve thinking, that. F developed a strategy of choosing the longest book possible, to maximize the time with “his” book. Then T started doing that, too, and soon both were deviously encouraging Q to choose the shortest chapter books they could find. With the advent of self-reading, though, this has mostly faded: a child uninterested in the current book can read a book to him or herself instead.
… except Q isn’t quite that far along yet. He can read short chapter books very well on his own, but the larger ones are still insurmountable. I expect by the end of the summer – at least by Christmas -- he’ll be able to read any book he wants and then tough chapter book dilemmas will be no more.
So today’s may be the last.
Q loves the “Eragon” book series. When he won a gift certificate to a book store from a drawing a couple years ago, he wanted the entire Eragon series. The third book was on the verge of being released and so we had him wait a month or two (no small feat) so that he could get the entire trilogy in one box set. Except when we finished the third book we found out that the series had expanded to four books. The fourth book is coming out soon… or eventually, anyway.
Everyone in my family knows that the best preparation for the release of a new book in a favorite series is to reread the most recent book… better is to reread the whole series. Especially if you were young and don’t remember all the details of your favorite series, which explains why Q wants to hear all three Eragon books again: his next three choices for chapter books.
Now there’s no hard rule against picking books we’ve already heard, but… well, it just isn’t done. There’s only so much group reading time – about 45 minutes a night – and to start repeating books is an insult the other people involved. And really large books, like every book in the Eragon series (over two months to read, each), aren’t quite subject to a veto, but…
So Q’s request is reasonable and backed up by the experience of everyone else in the family, yet it also goes against multiple unwritten rules of our tradition. He is not maliciously choosing something to annoy the others. He can’t read the book himself. Yet it sets his desires against the desires of the two others.
I can see why there’s an underground movement to make King Solomon the patron saint of parents and parenting-related decisions.
My decision isn’t totally made yet, which is unfortunate because we’re finishing T’s book after about 10 minutes of reading tonight. I’m probably going to read “Eragon” (and fend off complaints against unfairness with “He can’t read it himself” and “We read this one a long time ago.”) and rather hope that Q finds another book before we move onto the next one. I expect F and T to retaliate with long books for their next choices… maybe even books we’ve read before. (T’s likely to choose “Twilight”, for example. Oh, I might be able to counter that by offering to read “Eclipse,” saying that Q is old enough to hear it because he will be 8 by then…).
Maybe this is a minor decision, but it still pits the desires of one child against the desires of another. And other decisions will come along: in June, F’s Boy Scout summer camp, which I try to attend, is the same week as Q’s Cub Scout Day camp, which I try to attend. As they get older, the decisions seem more important, too.
Some things were easier once upon a time.
Then came T…
Then came Q…
Part of our bedtime ritual is “the reading of the picture books” followed by “the reading of the chapter books.” When the children were little, they each chose two picture books and I would read Q’s first (shortest attention span), the T’s, and finally F’s and then finish with the chapter book that I chose myself. Easy as… except F decided that this wasn’t really fair (children are great at measuring fairness. I wonder if a system of teaching mathematics at schools – even up through calculus – could be built upon this ability) and so we devised a new household order: Q’s books were first one night, then T’s the next, and then F’s the next. The good news about this complicated system was that the children themselves kept track of whose turn came next and rigidly enforced it. (In fact, having 3 or more children made this easier. If only 2 were involved, I’m guessing that they’d both remember it was their turn every night.)
Now that the children are ever so much older and more mature, they squabble about chapter books instead of picture books. I choose the picture books and parts of my audience come and go as they please. Picture book time is mostly Q’s time these days. Chapter books, though, are selected by the children in turn. All problems solved? Naïve thinking, that. F developed a strategy of choosing the longest book possible, to maximize the time with “his” book. Then T started doing that, too, and soon both were deviously encouraging Q to choose the shortest chapter books they could find. With the advent of self-reading, though, this has mostly faded: a child uninterested in the current book can read a book to him or herself instead.
… except Q isn’t quite that far along yet. He can read short chapter books very well on his own, but the larger ones are still insurmountable. I expect by the end of the summer – at least by Christmas -- he’ll be able to read any book he wants and then tough chapter book dilemmas will be no more.
So today’s may be the last.
Q loves the “Eragon” book series. When he won a gift certificate to a book store from a drawing a couple years ago, he wanted the entire Eragon series. The third book was on the verge of being released and so we had him wait a month or two (no small feat) so that he could get the entire trilogy in one box set. Except when we finished the third book we found out that the series had expanded to four books. The fourth book is coming out soon… or eventually, anyway.
Everyone in my family knows that the best preparation for the release of a new book in a favorite series is to reread the most recent book… better is to reread the whole series. Especially if you were young and don’t remember all the details of your favorite series, which explains why Q wants to hear all three Eragon books again: his next three choices for chapter books.
Now there’s no hard rule against picking books we’ve already heard, but… well, it just isn’t done. There’s only so much group reading time – about 45 minutes a night – and to start repeating books is an insult the other people involved. And really large books, like every book in the Eragon series (over two months to read, each), aren’t quite subject to a veto, but…
So Q’s request is reasonable and backed up by the experience of everyone else in the family, yet it also goes against multiple unwritten rules of our tradition. He is not maliciously choosing something to annoy the others. He can’t read the book himself. Yet it sets his desires against the desires of the two others.
I can see why there’s an underground movement to make King Solomon the patron saint of parents and parenting-related decisions.
My decision isn’t totally made yet, which is unfortunate because we’re finishing T’s book after about 10 minutes of reading tonight. I’m probably going to read “Eragon” (and fend off complaints against unfairness with “He can’t read it himself” and “We read this one a long time ago.”) and rather hope that Q finds another book before we move onto the next one. I expect F and T to retaliate with long books for their next choices… maybe even books we’ve read before. (T’s likely to choose “Twilight”, for example. Oh, I might be able to counter that by offering to read “Eclipse,” saying that Q is old enough to hear it because he will be 8 by then…).
Maybe this is a minor decision, but it still pits the desires of one child against the desires of another. And other decisions will come along: in June, F’s Boy Scout summer camp, which I try to attend, is the same week as Q’s Cub Scout Day camp, which I try to attend. As they get older, the decisions seem more important, too.
Some things were easier once upon a time.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
A Word Against Caffeine
Giving up caffeine isn't for everyone. I wouldn't have chosen to do it myself, but I felt I needed to. Here is my story…
I gave up caffeine in November 2008. I had tried, halfheartedly, to cut down the caffeine consumption now and again, but it always crept back up to too many cans of soda a day. When I started drinking chai, too, though, I found that caffeine was really bad on my blood pressure. I actually had a medical professional say "That can't be… I'm going to take your blood pressure again," and then get nearly the same reading. Ouch. Since I'm hoping to live forever, or as close to forever as I can arrange, I decided that I didn't want to continue hurting my internal systems and so I quit drinking anything with caffeine. (Even decaffeinated tea, it turns out, has caffeine… just less of it). So now I drink herbal teas and caffeine-free soda. Carbonation keeps me alert, though. Marvelous stuff.
Interestingly, once I suffered through a couple weeks of withdrawal (the headaches, etc.) and then another couple weeks of feeling slow and stupid, I found that I returned to normal. Or as normal as I'm ever likely to be called.
So now I have a theory about caffeine. I'm basing this solely on my own experience and clever, though unproven, analogy, so I'm sure medical scientists will soon by stopping by my house to ask me questions on many other topics and I'll be glad to think about things for them. Maybe I'll even perform experiments on myself, because I am totally generous when it comes to the good of all humanity and my own fame. Anyway, about caffeine. I'm thinking that caffeine doesn't actually produce energy. Instead, it allows you to push your body harder without noticing the effects right away. Your body and mind only have so much energy to give… that's mostly unchanged no matter how much you coax. So, in a way, caffeine hands you energy only by taking it from elsewhere: from your tomorrow self. It's like energy on credit. Ka-ching! You still have to pay for it later, just not right now. That debt of energy is part of what makes giving caffeine up so maddeningly difficult. Once I broke the cycle of using tomorrow's energy, though, (or the energy from the days and weeks after that) I ended up nearly as alert without the caffeine.
Unless it's all a perception bias. I suppose I could have simply gotten used to the new slower, stupider me. If that is actually the case, and it's noticeable, I probably won't thank you for informing me of that, because I am enjoying this potentially delusional idea, as well as my healthy, frequently even athletic, blood pressure.
There's one other thing I keep telling myself. I believe that I used to be buying energy on credit by drinking caffeine. Well, I read that caffeine gives you a bigger boost if there's less in your system, so you can save up for those times you really need it. Now I have a system that's free of caffeine, so I am sitting on quite a wealth of energy here. I could pop open a soda and cash in that energy sometime when I really really need it. I'll be practically superhuman the day I do, and knowing that makes me smugly happy at times like right now, when I'm lusting for a nap.
I gave up caffeine in November 2008. I had tried, halfheartedly, to cut down the caffeine consumption now and again, but it always crept back up to too many cans of soda a day. When I started drinking chai, too, though, I found that caffeine was really bad on my blood pressure. I actually had a medical professional say "That can't be… I'm going to take your blood pressure again," and then get nearly the same reading. Ouch. Since I'm hoping to live forever, or as close to forever as I can arrange, I decided that I didn't want to continue hurting my internal systems and so I quit drinking anything with caffeine. (Even decaffeinated tea, it turns out, has caffeine… just less of it). So now I drink herbal teas and caffeine-free soda. Carbonation keeps me alert, though. Marvelous stuff.
Interestingly, once I suffered through a couple weeks of withdrawal (the headaches, etc.) and then another couple weeks of feeling slow and stupid, I found that I returned to normal. Or as normal as I'm ever likely to be called.
So now I have a theory about caffeine. I'm basing this solely on my own experience and clever, though unproven, analogy, so I'm sure medical scientists will soon by stopping by my house to ask me questions on many other topics and I'll be glad to think about things for them. Maybe I'll even perform experiments on myself, because I am totally generous when it comes to the good of all humanity and my own fame. Anyway, about caffeine. I'm thinking that caffeine doesn't actually produce energy. Instead, it allows you to push your body harder without noticing the effects right away. Your body and mind only have so much energy to give… that's mostly unchanged no matter how much you coax. So, in a way, caffeine hands you energy only by taking it from elsewhere: from your tomorrow self. It's like energy on credit. Ka-ching! You still have to pay for it later, just not right now. That debt of energy is part of what makes giving caffeine up so maddeningly difficult. Once I broke the cycle of using tomorrow's energy, though, (or the energy from the days and weeks after that) I ended up nearly as alert without the caffeine.
Unless it's all a perception bias. I suppose I could have simply gotten used to the new slower, stupider me. If that is actually the case, and it's noticeable, I probably won't thank you for informing me of that, because I am enjoying this potentially delusional idea, as well as my healthy, frequently even athletic, blood pressure.
There's one other thing I keep telling myself. I believe that I used to be buying energy on credit by drinking caffeine. Well, I read that caffeine gives you a bigger boost if there's less in your system, so you can save up for those times you really need it. Now I have a system that's free of caffeine, so I am sitting on quite a wealth of energy here. I could pop open a soda and cash in that energy sometime when I really really need it. I'll be practically superhuman the day I do, and knowing that makes me smugly happy at times like right now, when I'm lusting for a nap.
A Tip for Teaching Children to Swallow Pills
I learned this from an engineer at that place I work.
Some kids can learn to swallow pills easily, but others have a lot of trouble. When Q was prescribed daily medication, we were lucky enough to be able to get the capsules that you can open and sprinkle onto food, so we had the luxury of being able to ease into pill swallowing. Still, we figured that Q should learn to swallow pills. Besides, it would be easy for him. This is the boy that will eat anything, who is always hungry. This is the boy that ate dinner and dessert, then went to a cub scout meeting where he ate his own treat and the treat of the boy next to him and then announced, on the way home, that he was starving. This is the boy that eats foods that don't taste good together, like when he dunked his brownie in his chili or swept up the remains of his pork gravy with his peach. (In both cases, he liked the taste combination!) This is the boy that accidentally swallowed a cherry pit recently. A small tasteless pill shouldn't be a problem.
I tried to start with chopped up bits of gummy bears, so I could cut any size I wanted, but when I tried to swallow one myself, I found that the gummy stickiness tended to make me nearly choke to death. My wife found the same thing, so I moved on to a cinnamon red hot. Q tried one, but couldn't stand to have that taste in his mouth for long (go figure) and didn't want to try again. So finally he really got started with a mini M&M. We told him to put a small amount of water in his mouth, tilt his head back, drop the M&M in his mouth, and then swallow everything. He swallowed everything but the M&M. Again and again he swallowed mouthfuls of water and each time he was surprised to ind the M&M still in his mouth. Finally his stomach was sloshing and his shirt was wet. We needed a new plan.
When I told the story at work, a guy (let's call him Mike, because that's his name) suggested using crackers instead of water. He said it was the easiest way to swallow pills.
Home again, I gave Q two crackers and a mini M&M. He popped the M&M in after he'd chewed up the crackers and swallowed everything. After a few more successes, he tried a full-sized M&M. No problem. That night, after he'd taken his medicine sprinkled on food, I gave him an empty capsule and two crackers. No problem there, either.
Now Q can chew up three crackers and pop three capsules into his mouth and swallow it all. He has learned to swallow his capsules with just water, too, but he still prefers the cracker method. For my son, anyway, it works.
I told my dad, who is a pharmacist, and my sister, who is an early childhood educator, and neither of them had heard of this method. They both were happy to hear how well this worked, though, because they've both been asked about getting children to swallow pills.
Some kids can learn to swallow pills easily, but others have a lot of trouble. When Q was prescribed daily medication, we were lucky enough to be able to get the capsules that you can open and sprinkle onto food, so we had the luxury of being able to ease into pill swallowing. Still, we figured that Q should learn to swallow pills. Besides, it would be easy for him. This is the boy that will eat anything, who is always hungry. This is the boy that ate dinner and dessert, then went to a cub scout meeting where he ate his own treat and the treat of the boy next to him and then announced, on the way home, that he was starving. This is the boy that eats foods that don't taste good together, like when he dunked his brownie in his chili or swept up the remains of his pork gravy with his peach. (In both cases, he liked the taste combination!) This is the boy that accidentally swallowed a cherry pit recently. A small tasteless pill shouldn't be a problem.
I tried to start with chopped up bits of gummy bears, so I could cut any size I wanted, but when I tried to swallow one myself, I found that the gummy stickiness tended to make me nearly choke to death. My wife found the same thing, so I moved on to a cinnamon red hot. Q tried one, but couldn't stand to have that taste in his mouth for long (go figure) and didn't want to try again. So finally he really got started with a mini M&M. We told him to put a small amount of water in his mouth, tilt his head back, drop the M&M in his mouth, and then swallow everything. He swallowed everything but the M&M. Again and again he swallowed mouthfuls of water and each time he was surprised to ind the M&M still in his mouth. Finally his stomach was sloshing and his shirt was wet. We needed a new plan.
When I told the story at work, a guy (let's call him Mike, because that's his name) suggested using crackers instead of water. He said it was the easiest way to swallow pills.
Home again, I gave Q two crackers and a mini M&M. He popped the M&M in after he'd chewed up the crackers and swallowed everything. After a few more successes, he tried a full-sized M&M. No problem. That night, after he'd taken his medicine sprinkled on food, I gave him an empty capsule and two crackers. No problem there, either.
Now Q can chew up three crackers and pop three capsules into his mouth and swallow it all. He has learned to swallow his capsules with just water, too, but he still prefers the cracker method. For my son, anyway, it works.
I told my dad, who is a pharmacist, and my sister, who is an early childhood educator, and neither of them had heard of this method. They both were happy to hear how well this worked, though, because they've both been asked about getting children to swallow pills.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Experimenting on Children
It's nearly time to see how my experiment has worked.
Theory: My theory is that if you teach kids thinking skills and confidence in themselves, they'll be less subject to the influence of their peers.
Apparatus: To conduct this experiment, I generated three children and spent around a decade developing their confidence.
Goals: To make the children accustomed to coming up with and having confidence in their own ideas, to realizing that the things other people say can be flawed, and to give them a chance to solve problems on their own and with the help of others.
Long range goal: Hopefully (someday... maybe) they'll also realize that their own ideas and thinking can also be flawed and will apply the questioning skills they've developed to their own ideas.
Steps:
Ask the child a lot of questions,especially of the "how does this work" variety. Like "Why doesn't that balloon fall?" Listen to the answers and use them in later conversations. Show the child his or her thoughts matter by talking about the things that have been said.
Ask "Are you sure?" when the child explains something, whether the explanation is right or wrong, so that "Are you sure?" doesn't become a code for "I think you're wrong." If he or she asks "Is that right?" answer with "I think so" rather than "yes," indicating that truth is subjective. Do not pose as the expert.
Answer questions with "What do you think?" And when forced to answer a question, phrase it as "I think that …" so the child realizes that what is said is opinion. This will train the child to think of the world as something we're all trying to work together to understand rather than a solved problem that can be explained by the correct expert.
Say age-appropriate absurd things, like "Wow, you hit that balloon really hard… let me hold it in front of my face this time" to "Man, it's late! Everyone brush your teeth in the car so you can get right into bed as soon as we get home" to "Oh, this is the tag I need to get you back from the child care room. Why don’t you hold onto it?" Make the child realize that any statement could be flawed at some level.
Encourage questions, don't just allow them. If the child can question a parent or authority figure, he or she will have the strength to question peers. All authority should be subject to questioning. It's just a question. (As an added benefit, the one being questioned is made to think, too. "Does it really matter if dessert comes first?" or "Does it really matter if the shoes match?" Many cultural norms are habitual rather than necessary.)
Try not to answer requests with "no," but with words that explain the situation, leaving it open for the child to solve it. "I can't play with you right now because I have to wash the dishes and collect the trash" or "The problem with you playing outside is that you've left toys on the floor." Again, the child is taught that life is a problem we can work together to solve.
Still awaiting results...
Notes
With F in middle school now, he'll soon be in the hands of his peers and I've tried to armor him against rough treatment that adolescents give each other. The data is about to start coming in....
Theory: My theory is that if you teach kids thinking skills and confidence in themselves, they'll be less subject to the influence of their peers.
Apparatus: To conduct this experiment, I generated three children and spent around a decade developing their confidence.
Goals: To make the children accustomed to coming up with and having confidence in their own ideas, to realizing that the things other people say can be flawed, and to give them a chance to solve problems on their own and with the help of others.
Long range goal: Hopefully (someday... maybe) they'll also realize that their own ideas and thinking can also be flawed and will apply the questioning skills they've developed to their own ideas.
Steps:
Ask the child a lot of questions,especially of the "how does this work" variety. Like "Why doesn't that balloon fall?" Listen to the answers and use them in later conversations. Show the child his or her thoughts matter by talking about the things that have been said.
Ask "Are you sure?" when the child explains something, whether the explanation is right or wrong, so that "Are you sure?" doesn't become a code for "I think you're wrong." If he or she asks "Is that right?" answer with "I think so" rather than "yes," indicating that truth is subjective. Do not pose as the expert.
Answer questions with "What do you think?" And when forced to answer a question, phrase it as "I think that …" so the child realizes that what is said is opinion. This will train the child to think of the world as something we're all trying to work together to understand rather than a solved problem that can be explained by the correct expert.
Say age-appropriate absurd things, like "Wow, you hit that balloon really hard… let me hold it in front of my face this time" to "Man, it's late! Everyone brush your teeth in the car so you can get right into bed as soon as we get home" to "Oh, this is the tag I need to get you back from the child care room. Why don’t you hold onto it?" Make the child realize that any statement could be flawed at some level.
Encourage questions, don't just allow them. If the child can question a parent or authority figure, he or she will have the strength to question peers. All authority should be subject to questioning. It's just a question. (As an added benefit, the one being questioned is made to think, too. "Does it really matter if dessert comes first?" or "Does it really matter if the shoes match?" Many cultural norms are habitual rather than necessary.)
Try not to answer requests with "no," but with words that explain the situation, leaving it open for the child to solve it. "I can't play with you right now because I have to wash the dishes and collect the trash" or "The problem with you playing outside is that you've left toys on the floor." Again, the child is taught that life is a problem we can work together to solve.
Still awaiting results...
Notes
With F in middle school now, he'll soon be in the hands of his peers and I've tried to armor him against rough treatment that adolescents give each other. The data is about to start coming in....
Theoretical linguistics I
So here's my little thought.
A 'palindrome' is a word, phrase, or sentence that's spelled the same backwards and forwards, right? So why isn't the word itself a palindrome? Wouldn't that just make more sense?
I guess our language is full of little things like that -- the word 'onomatopoeia' doesn't sound like the thing it describes, so it isn't onomatopoetic -- but couldn't we fix the place up a little? Or at least supply some more options? It's not like we're trying to preserve a tiny little language set anyway. You say 'synonymous' and I say 'redundant.'
I envision a world full of synonyms for 'palindrome.' Some of them are palindromic themselves and some, like our current word 'palindrome,' aren't. 'Palinnilap' would be a great synonym for palindrome -- it keeps the Greek etymology of 'back again' and drops the 'running' part for a second, reversed, 'back again' -- and has the advantage of being a palindrome itself. That word's even better than the original, I'd have to say if I weren't so adorably humble, but I'm sure there are lots of other perfectly good constructions that would lead to synonyms, both palindromic and not. Even more options appear if one drops the rather archaic requirement of reasonable etymology. Imagine 10,000 words that all mean 'palindrome:' some are palindromic and some are not.
Now if we lived in a world with such a rich selection of words, it would be important to be able to talk about those words. A poet, you know, or a lyricist or even a third grader composing a taunt might require a non-palindromic palindrome synonym, which is a description that does not slide easily from the tongue. It really requires a single-word description for everyday use. And soon you have words to describe the four possible classes of words: palindromic palindrome synonyms, non-palindromic palindrome synonyms, palindromic words that are not synonymous with 'palindrome,' and non-palindromic words that are not synonymous with 'palindrome' (the last being a surprisingly large set). Even for us, these four classifications cover all possible words; it's just that the utility of this division is a little questionable in our current language. Still, it's good to make structures to help us understand our language and improve it for future speakers, right? So we categorize.
Then comes the obvious next question: what should we call non-palindromic names for the category of palindromic palindrome synonyms?
If only there were money in theoretical linguistics…
A 'palindrome' is a word, phrase, or sentence that's spelled the same backwards and forwards, right? So why isn't the word itself a palindrome? Wouldn't that just make more sense?
I guess our language is full of little things like that -- the word 'onomatopoeia' doesn't sound like the thing it describes, so it isn't onomatopoetic -- but couldn't we fix the place up a little? Or at least supply some more options? It's not like we're trying to preserve a tiny little language set anyway. You say 'synonymous' and I say 'redundant.'
I envision a world full of synonyms for 'palindrome.' Some of them are palindromic themselves and some, like our current word 'palindrome,' aren't. 'Palinnilap' would be a great synonym for palindrome -- it keeps the Greek etymology of 'back again' and drops the 'running' part for a second, reversed, 'back again' -- and has the advantage of being a palindrome itself. That word's even better than the original, I'd have to say if I weren't so adorably humble, but I'm sure there are lots of other perfectly good constructions that would lead to synonyms, both palindromic and not. Even more options appear if one drops the rather archaic requirement of reasonable etymology. Imagine 10,000 words that all mean 'palindrome:' some are palindromic and some are not.
Now if we lived in a world with such a rich selection of words, it would be important to be able to talk about those words. A poet, you know, or a lyricist or even a third grader composing a taunt might require a non-palindromic palindrome synonym, which is a description that does not slide easily from the tongue. It really requires a single-word description for everyday use. And soon you have words to describe the four possible classes of words: palindromic palindrome synonyms, non-palindromic palindrome synonyms, palindromic words that are not synonymous with 'palindrome,' and non-palindromic words that are not synonymous with 'palindrome' (the last being a surprisingly large set). Even for us, these four classifications cover all possible words; it's just that the utility of this division is a little questionable in our current language. Still, it's good to make structures to help us understand our language and improve it for future speakers, right? So we categorize.
Then comes the obvious next question: what should we call non-palindromic names for the category of palindromic palindrome synonyms?
If only there were money in theoretical linguistics…
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Scariest moments of my life
The chronicles of some of the scariest moments of my life
(1) Q's first seizure. I was home alone, thought he was choking, called 911, and rode in an ambulance for the first time.
(2) T was about 3 years old and we were at a playground. Little Miss Daring decided that the playground equipment, while rather fun, didn't challenge her climbing skills. I was watching from nearby, but apparently not close enough. Before I realized her plan, she had scaled the outer structure and was 8 feet in the air with her belly on a support beam and the rest of her body just dangling. I tried to stay under her and climb up to her at the same time, repeatedly, but it was either-or. Finally I just stood under her, preparing to catch her if she slipped. She looked around for a few forevers, then got bored and climbed back down. "Hiya, Dada!" she said when she was on the ground again. It was years before she was allowed at a playground without a bungee safety cord.
(3) F was about 5 years old at a crowded playground. I was standing under T who was dangling 8 feet in the air from the support structure of some of the playground equipment. When T regained the ground, F was missing. Missing. I stood different edges of the playground, trying to recall what colors he was wearing. I climbed up on some of the equipment, trying to get a different vantage point. I was just starting to ask other adults if they'd seen F when he appeared in the middle of a group of boys. He'd gone on the other side of the bathroom building to see what was there and come back while I was panicking.
(4) I was at a campground playground (what is it with playgrounds?) when I was 11. We were playing tag and a bigger boy was chasing me. I turned to look behind me — he was nearly right behind me — and then I turned forward to run faster. Suddenly "BAM!" He kicked me in the head. Or so I thought. I was definitely on the ground, my baseball cap was gone, and my head hurt a lot. Some adults cooking dinner at a nearby campsite looked up at me. Their eyes grew big and they started running toward me. Do I know these people?!? That's when blood oozed down the entire right side of my head. Woozy, I sat down. It turns out I had come very close to fitting under the big 4x4 plank that was a bridge for the playground equipment. Very close to fitting, but not quite. I'd torn back part of my scalp on that wooden bridge and the emergency room put 9 stitches in my 6 inch long gash. This probably makes my mom's list of scariest moments ever, too.
(5) Around midnight one night, my wife woke me up. "I smell smoke." We have a house built in the late 70s, so it is blessed with aluminum (rather than copper) wiring, which is "safe enough." No smoke detectors were screaming, it was just the smell of smoke. Strongest downstairs. I carried a smoke detector around down there, trying to get it to give me a clue where to look, but it remained quiet. Then I thought of the dog. He's part basset hound, right? He has this great nose, doesn't he? So I carried him around downstairs, but he just looked at me with big "What're ya doin'?" eyes. We gave up on finding the fire ourselves, thinking it could be behind a wall or something. My wife called 911 and, at their advice, woke the kids and took them outside. I ran downstairs and shut off all the power (except for one circuit to light my way back up the stairs), figuring that had to help. Finally a police officer arrived. He and I looked around downstairs and his flashlight touched on a wisp of smoke rising from my big seedling tray, still growing had a few pepper and tomato plants a bit too big to be called seedlings anymore. Suddenly I realize how this looks. I'm not conservative looking at the best of times, but I just got out of bed and I'm wearing cutoff jean shorts. No shirt, no shoes. I've got plants growing in my basement. "Oh, man, my tomato plants!" I say, to reassure him that I've got nothing illegal growing there. I unplug the under-dirt heater (which just happens to be on the only circuit I left powered) and pour water on it. By the time the firemen arrive to axe through our front door, there's nothing for them to do but help air out the house. And we've been under federal surveillance ever since...
(1) Q's first seizure. I was home alone, thought he was choking, called 911, and rode in an ambulance for the first time.
(2) T was about 3 years old and we were at a playground. Little Miss Daring decided that the playground equipment, while rather fun, didn't challenge her climbing skills. I was watching from nearby, but apparently not close enough. Before I realized her plan, she had scaled the outer structure and was 8 feet in the air with her belly on a support beam and the rest of her body just dangling. I tried to stay under her and climb up to her at the same time, repeatedly, but it was either-or. Finally I just stood under her, preparing to catch her if she slipped. She looked around for a few forevers, then got bored and climbed back down. "Hiya, Dada!" she said when she was on the ground again. It was years before she was allowed at a playground without a bungee safety cord.
(3) F was about 5 years old at a crowded playground. I was standing under T who was dangling 8 feet in the air from the support structure of some of the playground equipment. When T regained the ground, F was missing. Missing. I stood different edges of the playground, trying to recall what colors he was wearing. I climbed up on some of the equipment, trying to get a different vantage point. I was just starting to ask other adults if they'd seen F when he appeared in the middle of a group of boys. He'd gone on the other side of the bathroom building to see what was there and come back while I was panicking.
(4) I was at a campground playground (what is it with playgrounds?) when I was 11. We were playing tag and a bigger boy was chasing me. I turned to look behind me — he was nearly right behind me — and then I turned forward to run faster. Suddenly "BAM!" He kicked me in the head. Or so I thought. I was definitely on the ground, my baseball cap was gone, and my head hurt a lot. Some adults cooking dinner at a nearby campsite looked up at me. Their eyes grew big and they started running toward me. Do I know these people?!? That's when blood oozed down the entire right side of my head. Woozy, I sat down. It turns out I had come very close to fitting under the big 4x4 plank that was a bridge for the playground equipment. Very close to fitting, but not quite. I'd torn back part of my scalp on that wooden bridge and the emergency room put 9 stitches in my 6 inch long gash. This probably makes my mom's list of scariest moments ever, too.
(5) Around midnight one night, my wife woke me up. "I smell smoke." We have a house built in the late 70s, so it is blessed with aluminum (rather than copper) wiring, which is "safe enough." No smoke detectors were screaming, it was just the smell of smoke. Strongest downstairs. I carried a smoke detector around down there, trying to get it to give me a clue where to look, but it remained quiet. Then I thought of the dog. He's part basset hound, right? He has this great nose, doesn't he? So I carried him around downstairs, but he just looked at me with big "What're ya doin'?" eyes. We gave up on finding the fire ourselves, thinking it could be behind a wall or something. My wife called 911 and, at their advice, woke the kids and took them outside. I ran downstairs and shut off all the power (except for one circuit to light my way back up the stairs), figuring that had to help. Finally a police officer arrived. He and I looked around downstairs and his flashlight touched on a wisp of smoke rising from my big seedling tray, still growing had a few pepper and tomato plants a bit too big to be called seedlings anymore. Suddenly I realize how this looks. I'm not conservative looking at the best of times, but I just got out of bed and I'm wearing cutoff jean shorts. No shirt, no shoes. I've got plants growing in my basement. "Oh, man, my tomato plants!" I say, to reassure him that I've got nothing illegal growing there. I unplug the under-dirt heater (which just happens to be on the only circuit I left powered) and pour water on it. By the time the firemen arrive to axe through our front door, there's nothing for them to do but help air out the house. And we've been under federal surveillance ever since...
25 random things about me
1. Most people don't realize there are two versions of me: the loud outgoing theatrical one and the nearly silent one.
2. I always wanted to be an astronaut and would still love to visit the moon…. Or, even better, another planet.
3. I tell my kids that my favorite thing is "books."
4. I used to read one book at a time, but at the moment I'm in the middle of at least ten.
5. I don't watch any TV shows. Not even the news or sports.
6. I used to be a radio DJ in Rolla and I totally miss doing that.
7. I still juggle (including clubs). I do funny shows for my kids (and their friends) at their birthday parties.
8. I think eyes are among the most beautiful things in the world.
9. I cross-stitch.
10. I figure out software by empathy. I imagine I'm the software routine and look around to see what I know, or what I need to know to do my job.
11. I have a hard time saying "no" to anything. Even when I say "no," I usually change my mind a few minutes later.
12. I love irony. And the absurd.
13. I love playing with words.
14. I've never been drunk, but if it's anything like coming out of anesthesia, I bet I'd be very entertaining.
15. I don't believe in rules. I believe in guidelines and best practices.
16. I'm an Eagle Scout.
17. I've researched speech development, obsessive-compulsive disorder, epilepsy, and sensory integration disorders at various times to help my kids. I'll make myself a semi-expert on anything for the good of my children.
18 (a). I believe that knowledge is the most important thing in solving any problem.
18 (b). I believe that cooperation is the most important thing in solving any problem.
18 (c). I believe that imagination is the most important thing in solving any problem.
18 (d). I believe that experimentation is the most important thing in solving any problem.
19. I learned to play bridge more by watching my partner's reaction to my play than by what I was actually taught.
20. I acted in 10 plays at UMR and totally miss doing that.
21. Part of the reason I decided to be Cubmaster for the Cub Scouts is so I'd have an audience again.
22. I sing harmony to songs when I'm home alone. I make up the harmonies myself and don't care how off-key it turns out.
23. I do nothing for only one reason. I have to have multiple motivations before I'll do a thing.
24. I dropped out of my PhD program when all I had left to do was my dissertation.
25 (a). The journal I have written in every day since January 1,1994 is addressed to "Future-Bob," a theoretical historian reading my journal in the future.
25 (b). I'll do nearly anything to prove a stereotype wrong.
25 (c). I'm a horrible patient when I'm sick. I want to pretend I'm well, so I try to do everything for myself.
2. I always wanted to be an astronaut and would still love to visit the moon…. Or, even better, another planet.
3. I tell my kids that my favorite thing is "books."
4. I used to read one book at a time, but at the moment I'm in the middle of at least ten.
5. I don't watch any TV shows. Not even the news or sports.
6. I used to be a radio DJ in Rolla and I totally miss doing that.
7. I still juggle (including clubs). I do funny shows for my kids (and their friends) at their birthday parties.
8. I think eyes are among the most beautiful things in the world.
9. I cross-stitch.
10. I figure out software by empathy. I imagine I'm the software routine and look around to see what I know, or what I need to know to do my job.
11. I have a hard time saying "no" to anything. Even when I say "no," I usually change my mind a few minutes later.
12. I love irony. And the absurd.
13. I love playing with words.
14. I've never been drunk, but if it's anything like coming out of anesthesia, I bet I'd be very entertaining.
15. I don't believe in rules. I believe in guidelines and best practices.
16. I'm an Eagle Scout.
17. I've researched speech development, obsessive-compulsive disorder, epilepsy, and sensory integration disorders at various times to help my kids. I'll make myself a semi-expert on anything for the good of my children.
18 (a). I believe that knowledge is the most important thing in solving any problem.
18 (b). I believe that cooperation is the most important thing in solving any problem.
18 (c). I believe that imagination is the most important thing in solving any problem.
18 (d). I believe that experimentation is the most important thing in solving any problem.
19. I learned to play bridge more by watching my partner's reaction to my play than by what I was actually taught.
20. I acted in 10 plays at UMR and totally miss doing that.
21. Part of the reason I decided to be Cubmaster for the Cub Scouts is so I'd have an audience again.
22. I sing harmony to songs when I'm home alone. I make up the harmonies myself and don't care how off-key it turns out.
23. I do nothing for only one reason. I have to have multiple motivations before I'll do a thing.
24. I dropped out of my PhD program when all I had left to do was my dissertation.
25 (a). The journal I have written in every day since January 1,1994 is addressed to "Future-Bob," a theoretical historian reading my journal in the future.
25 (b). I'll do nearly anything to prove a stereotype wrong.
25 (c). I'm a horrible patient when I'm sick. I want to pretend I'm well, so I try to do everything for myself.
Christmas stuff
On Christmas morning, after the presents are opened, comes one of my favorite parts of the day: getting everything put together and into its new place. Even when we Christmas away from home, there's still that time when the new stuff gets unboxed and worked into the fabric of my house.
I'm the oldest of four, so (of course) I always got the coolest stuff for Christmas and I learned early that the third best way to protect my stuff was to get it put away. The best way to protect everything, of course, was to hide it; the problem with that choice being that if I hid it well enough to keep my siblings out of it, I might not be able to find it again myself. The second best protection was to set a snare around it, but... let's just say that had troubles, too. So instead I took all my new stuff and put it away as soon as I got the chance. As a little bonus, I'd occasionally forget about one of the new put-away things for a few days and then have a little surprise when I noticed it again. But my primary motivation was to keep my stuff safe.
Now that I'm a parent, my priorities have changed a little bit. I still move my new stuff quickly, I just put it on my bed. I'm not quite as worried that my brother'll stop by and fire up my new power tools before I get to try, so my bed is safe enough. Next I set up the new stuff that the kids received. When they were little, that meant removing twist tie after twist tie from the Fischer-Price toys; now it's more likely that I'll be putting battereis into a new toy, or even installing a new game on the computer.
This year, priority one was the new Wii. Everyone wanted to try it out: by setting it up first, I then had a little time to figure out what else needed construction or unpackaging that the kids couldn't handle. Once their new things were all done, then I felt like I could go integrate my new stuff -- clothes, books, etc -- into my house.
What I don't understand, though, is how my very own children -- blood of my blood -- simply did not inherit or learn my strategy of putting new stuff away. Christmas was more than two weeks ago and still... stuff is lying about. It's not like they don't touch each other's stuff. Complaints about "That's mine and it's new!" are frequently heard. (The rule in our house is that you can't touch anyone else's new stuff if they've had it less than a day. The children expanded that rule themselves to include any toy that was missing for a long time and just reappeared.) They're smart enough kids; you'd think they'd come up with a better strategy that simply complaining. To be fair, T is starting to implement the "putting stuff away" plan, but just this year when she's on the verge of age 10.
I've learned by at-times-painful trial-and-error that if I move something to put it away and (1) it's not actually mine and (2) I can't recall where I thought "away" was, then I am responsible for the search that will be required. So I don't move stuff that isn't mine (which is a rule my parents trained me to follow in the first place.) Okay, plus I can be lazy about other people's things. And some part of my brain insists that the owner will learn a lesson if the toy is lost or broken. My hesitation to move the stuff that belongs to others has many reasons.
The problem that comes this time of year is that the new Christmas toys lie scattered around the house and in the next few days the birthdays start arriving. All three of my kids chose to have birthdays in the 40 days that follow Christmas (which I believe is poor planning. I definitely prefer my early Spring birthday. Again, my children didn't follow my example...), so more new things will arrive and want for places to live, too.
This year I finally realized that my strategy for dealing with the growing messiness is to avoid and ignore. I find lots of reasons to be outside the house (despite the weather) and, when I do have to be home, I spend more time than normal in my room or workshop. The problem with this semi-unintentioanl strategy is that I tend to drag the children places "Let's go ice skating!" or "Let's go out to eat tonight!" or "We haven't seen a movie in a while!" or "Weather's great for sledding!" By dragging the kids away so much, I don't really give them the opportunity to get bored with the things in the house and maybe (just maybe) put stuff away. So I'm looking for a better strategy now. Something that keeps them in the house, but less entertained, yet keeps me busy when I'm here.
Oh, maybe I need to find a Wii game I like and demand my turn on the thing.
I'm the oldest of four, so (of course) I always got the coolest stuff for Christmas and I learned early that the third best way to protect my stuff was to get it put away. The best way to protect everything, of course, was to hide it; the problem with that choice being that if I hid it well enough to keep my siblings out of it, I might not be able to find it again myself. The second best protection was to set a snare around it, but... let's just say that had troubles, too. So instead I took all my new stuff and put it away as soon as I got the chance. As a little bonus, I'd occasionally forget about one of the new put-away things for a few days and then have a little surprise when I noticed it again. But my primary motivation was to keep my stuff safe.
Now that I'm a parent, my priorities have changed a little bit. I still move my new stuff quickly, I just put it on my bed. I'm not quite as worried that my brother'll stop by and fire up my new power tools before I get to try, so my bed is safe enough. Next I set up the new stuff that the kids received. When they were little, that meant removing twist tie after twist tie from the Fischer-Price toys; now it's more likely that I'll be putting battereis into a new toy, or even installing a new game on the computer.
This year, priority one was the new Wii. Everyone wanted to try it out: by setting it up first, I then had a little time to figure out what else needed construction or unpackaging that the kids couldn't handle. Once their new things were all done, then I felt like I could go integrate my new stuff -- clothes, books, etc -- into my house.
What I don't understand, though, is how my very own children -- blood of my blood -- simply did not inherit or learn my strategy of putting new stuff away. Christmas was more than two weeks ago and still... stuff is lying about. It's not like they don't touch each other's stuff. Complaints about "That's mine and it's new!" are frequently heard. (The rule in our house is that you can't touch anyone else's new stuff if they've had it less than a day. The children expanded that rule themselves to include any toy that was missing for a long time and just reappeared.) They're smart enough kids; you'd think they'd come up with a better strategy that simply complaining. To be fair, T is starting to implement the "putting stuff away" plan, but just this year when she's on the verge of age 10.
I've learned by at-times-painful trial-and-error that if I move something to put it away and (1) it's not actually mine and (2) I can't recall where I thought "away" was, then I am responsible for the search that will be required. So I don't move stuff that isn't mine (which is a rule my parents trained me to follow in the first place.) Okay, plus I can be lazy about other people's things. And some part of my brain insists that the owner will learn a lesson if the toy is lost or broken. My hesitation to move the stuff that belongs to others has many reasons.
The problem that comes this time of year is that the new Christmas toys lie scattered around the house and in the next few days the birthdays start arriving. All three of my kids chose to have birthdays in the 40 days that follow Christmas (which I believe is poor planning. I definitely prefer my early Spring birthday. Again, my children didn't follow my example...), so more new things will arrive and want for places to live, too.
This year I finally realized that my strategy for dealing with the growing messiness is to avoid and ignore. I find lots of reasons to be outside the house (despite the weather) and, when I do have to be home, I spend more time than normal in my room or workshop. The problem with this semi-unintentioanl strategy is that I tend to drag the children places "Let's go ice skating!" or "Let's go out to eat tonight!" or "We haven't seen a movie in a while!" or "Weather's great for sledding!" By dragging the kids away so much, I don't really give them the opportunity to get bored with the things in the house and maybe (just maybe) put stuff away. So I'm looking for a better strategy now. Something that keeps them in the house, but less entertained, yet keeps me busy when I'm here.
Oh, maybe I need to find a Wii game I like and demand my turn on the thing.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Q's first seizure
WARNING: Scary words. You may want to reconsider reading this.
By far the scariest moment of my life was the day of Q's first seizure. I thought he was dying. Having a child choke has always been one of my worst fear. For a few moments I actually thought Q was choking to death. I'm normally the type of person who can find the entertaining lining to any dark cloud. It's rare that you'll see me without a smile on my face and laughter ready to burble forth, but this was so intense that I found myself telling the story to everyone, as if I were trying to diffuse the emotions by theraputic repetition.
Q and I had been home alone for the weekend and we'd reached Sunday afternoon. My wife and the other two kids were on the road back from out of town. Q and I had gone swimming in the afternoon and he had jumped off the high platform dive for most of our visit. On our way home we were discussing dinner and the fun we'd had at the pool when we almost crashed into another car. The other driver had drifted into the center turn lane as if he were unsure of where he wanted to go, then suddenly swerved into a right turn across two lanes of road empty of cars except mine. Q and I had both been thrown forward against our seatbelts, but I had managed to stop without smashing into the passenger side of his car. I guess you never know when something unexpected is going to swerve into your path.
Home, we'd eaten pizza for dinner and then started playing Uno. Q was chewing gum… a special treat. He says that he threw away the gum during our Uno game, but I don't remember that.
As we played, I called out the cards I'd play (as always when playing with kids) and chattered to Q. In a moment of nice rhythm -- Q's card, my card, Q's card, my card -- there was a pause. Q's card was taking a long time, so I looked over at him. Q's eyes were closed and his head was falling backwards against the chair. For a moment I thought he was thinking or playing, but his head kept going backwards… painfully backwards. Then I thought of the gum.
My aunt once had a child get his airway blocked by a small piece of plastic. She had jammed her fingers nearly down his throat, and was able to slide the plastic out of the way. This was my first thought as I pictured Q's gum. I swept my fingers through his mouth twice, not finding anything. So I reached as far back in Q's mouth as I dared… still nothing. I was alone with Q and he was choking. Someone had to call 911, someone had to try to get the gum out of Q's throat, and someone had to panic. These were the necessary roles, and I was the only one there to handle them. I combined all three as best I could, flipping Q over (holding the 60+ pound boy in one arm, semi-upside-down) so I could pound on his back and try to knock the gum loose while running to the nearest phone and shouting and then shrieking Q's name and semi-coherent interjectionary prayers.
In the family room, I put him down. His face was blue. He was so very blue and he wasn't breathing. My mind was counting seconds, trying to decide when brain damage started. The gum had to come out! Help had to be called! I pulled Q's limp body to a sitting position and tried to force the steps for the Heimlich Manuever past the panic. I tried once lightly, then a second time with some force. At some point Q threw up a little… maybe it was then. I laid him back down. More blue! Not breathing! I scrabbled for the phone, thinking Q was dying. "How can this be happening when I'm right here?!?" I looked at Q so still and blue and for a moment I thought it was too late. I thought he was dead. I saw myself having to tell people what happened. I saw things Q would never experience. I hurt.
I think the death of your own child has got to be like a black hole, swallowing huge chunks of yourself: your image of your life and your future. I looked into that hole for a few seconds -- no more -- and that feeling of helplessness and despair still resurfaces at times.
911 answered. Panic erased the first things we said. I remember screaming at the operator "My son is dying!" and hearing "Sir, you have to calm down if I'm going to help you. What is your address?" I spat it out unintelligibly fast. Another plea for calm thought. "I'm not helping!" I remember thinking, "Q is dying and I'm making it worse." I shut down my emotions and answered everything briskly. "Help is on the way," the operator said, "Now I need you to…" I tilted Q's head back to open the airway. I tried to check his mouth for obstructions, but Q bit my finger. HARD. I tried a second time. He was going to bit my finger off if I let him. "I can't!" I said. Then I realized Q was moaning. He was dying and moaning. Then I realized that if he was moaning, air was coming out. "He's moaning! He's breathing!!" I shouted. I started stroking Q's forehead to let him know I was right next to him. And I heard that the paramedics were getting close.
Suddenly I realized I was home alone with the front door bolted shut. "I have to unlock the door," I told the 911 operator. "I want you to stay your son," the operator said, "Can't someone else unlock the door." "I'm home alone." "Go quickly, but safely." I unlocked and opened the front door, then came right back. Q was still breathing.
Boe, our dog, usually barks when anyone comes near our house, but he was silent when the paramedics and police knocked on the door. He let them come in without a sound. I started telling my story and Q's eyes opened. He was alert for a second, then gone again. The paramedics said it didn't seem like choking. They said we needed to go to the emergency room. One of them carried Q out. Boe tried to follow. I locked him in his crate, grabbed my wallet, and left. From the ambulance I saw a police officer talking to neighbors, then I concentrated on Q.
Q had moments of being alert. He'd say he was okay (Q's the boy who'll tell us he's okay while he's still falling), but then his eyes would roll back and he'd be gone again. The paramedic gave Q an IV connection and Q cried, but silently, as if it hurt but he was too exhausted to care how much. I babbled to Q, to the paramedic, maybe even to myself. Q surprised the paramedic by throwing up what looked like everything he'd eaten all day and then we were at the hospital.
Q was wheeled into the ER. I answered questions and signed papers. Q was subdued but fully alert. A doctor said "probably a seizure." I thought of calling my wife, but she was still a two-hour drive away. I decided to wait. I sat and held Q's warm, living foot… his whole warm leg. He was alive again and I hated every moment that I wasn't touching him. Q said he was tired. I moved to a different chair and stroked his cheek, held his hand. He fell asleep. More hospital people asked questions, saw my shining eyes. "Is he okay?" "I thought he was dying." They didn't stay long.
I waited until I thought my wife was about 30 minutes out of town, in case she was driving fast. I didn't want her to get home and worry, but I didn't want her to have to drive worried either. "Where are you?" I asked. About where I expected. "First, Q is fine... We're in the emergency room..."
There were things I would have done different if I'd had a rehearsal for Q's seizure, but I never saw it coming. I would have checked his breathing more thoroughly. Maybe he was breathing shallowly the whole time and I missed it. I think I would have been more calm if someone else had been there to panic, but I'm glad that no one else has to have memories of when they thought Q was dead. I am so thankful that the other two kids weren't there to hear my shrieks and pleas so that they can still believe, for a while yet, that there are no situations I can't handle.
Some people seemed concerned about the epilepsy diagnosis, but I told them that didn't bother me at all. "I thought my son was dead. I don't care what he has. Q is alive."
I tried to keep Q from knowing the worst details of his first seizure. He remembers playing cards and then being in the ambulance, nothing in between. Even the ambulance trip is fuzzy for him. But he must have heard me saying that I thought he had died because the next day when I got home from work he came into the garage, smiled at me, and asked, "Daddy, are you happy I'm not dead?" "More than you can imagine," I said, holding myself together until he went back into the house
By far the scariest moment of my life was the day of Q's first seizure. I thought he was dying. Having a child choke has always been one of my worst fear. For a few moments I actually thought Q was choking to death. I'm normally the type of person who can find the entertaining lining to any dark cloud. It's rare that you'll see me without a smile on my face and laughter ready to burble forth, but this was so intense that I found myself telling the story to everyone, as if I were trying to diffuse the emotions by theraputic repetition.
Q and I had been home alone for the weekend and we'd reached Sunday afternoon. My wife and the other two kids were on the road back from out of town. Q and I had gone swimming in the afternoon and he had jumped off the high platform dive for most of our visit. On our way home we were discussing dinner and the fun we'd had at the pool when we almost crashed into another car. The other driver had drifted into the center turn lane as if he were unsure of where he wanted to go, then suddenly swerved into a right turn across two lanes of road empty of cars except mine. Q and I had both been thrown forward against our seatbelts, but I had managed to stop without smashing into the passenger side of his car. I guess you never know when something unexpected is going to swerve into your path.
Home, we'd eaten pizza for dinner and then started playing Uno. Q was chewing gum… a special treat. He says that he threw away the gum during our Uno game, but I don't remember that.
As we played, I called out the cards I'd play (as always when playing with kids) and chattered to Q. In a moment of nice rhythm -- Q's card, my card, Q's card, my card -- there was a pause. Q's card was taking a long time, so I looked over at him. Q's eyes were closed and his head was falling backwards against the chair. For a moment I thought he was thinking or playing, but his head kept going backwards… painfully backwards. Then I thought of the gum.
My aunt once had a child get his airway blocked by a small piece of plastic. She had jammed her fingers nearly down his throat, and was able to slide the plastic out of the way. This was my first thought as I pictured Q's gum. I swept my fingers through his mouth twice, not finding anything. So I reached as far back in Q's mouth as I dared… still nothing. I was alone with Q and he was choking. Someone had to call 911, someone had to try to get the gum out of Q's throat, and someone had to panic. These were the necessary roles, and I was the only one there to handle them. I combined all three as best I could, flipping Q over (holding the 60+ pound boy in one arm, semi-upside-down) so I could pound on his back and try to knock the gum loose while running to the nearest phone and shouting and then shrieking Q's name and semi-coherent interjectionary prayers.
In the family room, I put him down. His face was blue. He was so very blue and he wasn't breathing. My mind was counting seconds, trying to decide when brain damage started. The gum had to come out! Help had to be called! I pulled Q's limp body to a sitting position and tried to force the steps for the Heimlich Manuever past the panic. I tried once lightly, then a second time with some force. At some point Q threw up a little… maybe it was then. I laid him back down. More blue! Not breathing! I scrabbled for the phone, thinking Q was dying. "How can this be happening when I'm right here?!?" I looked at Q so still and blue and for a moment I thought it was too late. I thought he was dead. I saw myself having to tell people what happened. I saw things Q would never experience. I hurt.
I think the death of your own child has got to be like a black hole, swallowing huge chunks of yourself: your image of your life and your future. I looked into that hole for a few seconds -- no more -- and that feeling of helplessness and despair still resurfaces at times.
911 answered. Panic erased the first things we said. I remember screaming at the operator "My son is dying!" and hearing "Sir, you have to calm down if I'm going to help you. What is your address?" I spat it out unintelligibly fast. Another plea for calm thought. "I'm not helping!" I remember thinking, "Q is dying and I'm making it worse." I shut down my emotions and answered everything briskly. "Help is on the way," the operator said, "Now I need you to…" I tilted Q's head back to open the airway. I tried to check his mouth for obstructions, but Q bit my finger. HARD. I tried a second time. He was going to bit my finger off if I let him. "I can't!" I said. Then I realized Q was moaning. He was dying and moaning. Then I realized that if he was moaning, air was coming out. "He's moaning! He's breathing!!" I shouted. I started stroking Q's forehead to let him know I was right next to him. And I heard that the paramedics were getting close.
Suddenly I realized I was home alone with the front door bolted shut. "I have to unlock the door," I told the 911 operator. "I want you to stay your son," the operator said, "Can't someone else unlock the door." "I'm home alone." "Go quickly, but safely." I unlocked and opened the front door, then came right back. Q was still breathing.
Boe, our dog, usually barks when anyone comes near our house, but he was silent when the paramedics and police knocked on the door. He let them come in without a sound. I started telling my story and Q's eyes opened. He was alert for a second, then gone again. The paramedics said it didn't seem like choking. They said we needed to go to the emergency room. One of them carried Q out. Boe tried to follow. I locked him in his crate, grabbed my wallet, and left. From the ambulance I saw a police officer talking to neighbors, then I concentrated on Q.
Q had moments of being alert. He'd say he was okay (Q's the boy who'll tell us he's okay while he's still falling), but then his eyes would roll back and he'd be gone again. The paramedic gave Q an IV connection and Q cried, but silently, as if it hurt but he was too exhausted to care how much. I babbled to Q, to the paramedic, maybe even to myself. Q surprised the paramedic by throwing up what looked like everything he'd eaten all day and then we were at the hospital.
Q was wheeled into the ER. I answered questions and signed papers. Q was subdued but fully alert. A doctor said "probably a seizure." I thought of calling my wife, but she was still a two-hour drive away. I decided to wait. I sat and held Q's warm, living foot… his whole warm leg. He was alive again and I hated every moment that I wasn't touching him. Q said he was tired. I moved to a different chair and stroked his cheek, held his hand. He fell asleep. More hospital people asked questions, saw my shining eyes. "Is he okay?" "I thought he was dying." They didn't stay long.
I waited until I thought my wife was about 30 minutes out of town, in case she was driving fast. I didn't want her to get home and worry, but I didn't want her to have to drive worried either. "Where are you?" I asked. About where I expected. "First, Q is fine... We're in the emergency room..."
There were things I would have done different if I'd had a rehearsal for Q's seizure, but I never saw it coming. I would have checked his breathing more thoroughly. Maybe he was breathing shallowly the whole time and I missed it. I think I would have been more calm if someone else had been there to panic, but I'm glad that no one else has to have memories of when they thought Q was dead. I am so thankful that the other two kids weren't there to hear my shrieks and pleas so that they can still believe, for a while yet, that there are no situations I can't handle.
Some people seemed concerned about the epilepsy diagnosis, but I told them that didn't bother me at all. "I thought my son was dead. I don't care what he has. Q is alive."
I tried to keep Q from knowing the worst details of his first seizure. He remembers playing cards and then being in the ambulance, nothing in between. Even the ambulance trip is fuzzy for him. But he must have heard me saying that I thought he had died because the next day when I got home from work he came into the garage, smiled at me, and asked, "Daddy, are you happy I'm not dead?" "More than you can imagine," I said, holding myself together until he went back into the house
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