Simian Farmer

Payback's a bitch

When the fey and feckless gods of The Confluence of Usually Divergent Agendas see fit to smile smirk down on you and allow you and your wife to go out on a Saturday night and leave the wee boys at home with Granny and Grumpy, you can rest assured that there won't be a one of you who wakes up the next morning without some combination of sniffles, headache, raw throat, puking, diarrhea and generally unpleasant demeanours.

Thankfully, we weren't all afflicted by all the nasty things just listed, but there was enough overlap to make for a largely unproductive Sunday.  Though the house got tidied and most of the laundry got done.  I still have to shovel the walk and driveway, too.  We've gotten about 10 centimetres of snow over the past few days and are averaging 10 degrees below seasonal temperatures.  When the average is only a few degrees above freezing, 10 of those is a big deal.  Last year, it was the middle of January before we had this much snow.

Which I certainly don't mind.  I've always liked winter.  Makes evenings at home 'cozy' in a way just not possible when you're sweating in your underwear at 100% humidity.  There is, however, the inconvenient fact of the gaping two square feet of hole in our back door where the doggie door used to be.  The enthusiasm of our two rumbustious canines has done it in for the third time in less than a year.  In a fit of pique, I plan to use some of the leftover plywood from the doghouse construction project and board up the hole until such time as a new human door can be acquired.  (I cringe every time I hear the furnace kick in and my morning workout today was especially vigorous in light of the fact I could nearly see my breath as I walked downstairs.)

Dex has a big, fluffy turtle costume to wear out trick-or-treating tomorrow, so he'll be warm and won't have to suffer the Canadian ignominy of going door to door in a really cool costume worn under a parka.  I've put off buying Hallowe'en candy until today so it lasts until tomorrow evening.  A decision I'm increasingly convinced was the correct one.

To be fair, Saturday was still hella-fun.  It was my sixth time (and Amy's... third?) attending the annual Oktoberfest to Rocktoberfest shenanigans in downtown Edmonton with 5,000 of my closest friends.  (Previous years mentioned here and here.)  Beer, bratwurst, polka bands, funny hats, cow bells and a washed-up 80's group who refuse to die caps the night.  (Chilliwack.)  Good times.  Plus, I got to see my wife felt up by another chick, and that was totally hot!

Number crunching

For the first time in its history, the Dow Jones Industrial Average recently passed 12,000.  It's Canadian counterpart, the TSX, did that earlier this same year and has since dropped back below.

Umm... twelve-thousand what?

After a bit of investigation, I just now, for the first time in my life, discovered what those numbers are.  The Dow, for example, is a scaled average of 30 of the largest and most widely held public companies in the US.  It's not a weighted average value because it needs to be scaled to compensate for the effect of stock splits and other adjustments.  (A 100% change in a $1 stock has the same effect as a 1% change in a $100 stock.)  I didn't dig any further than that, the initial impetus behind my curiosity sated.

So the Dow is simply an indication of how the US market is performing, based on the scaled average value of 30 of the top performers, the membership of which isn't always constant and neither is the degree by which each is scaled to come up with the average.

Interesting.

Also, I went to give blood last week.  They poke your finger every time to make sure your iron content is good and to type your blood if you're a first-timer.  I gave plasma instead of whole blood and part of that process is checking protein levels.  If they're above 40, you're good to donate.  Mine was 47.  So I asked, "47 what?"

I was told it was a measure of the amount of protein in my blood and as long as levels were above that threshold, I was in the clear.  So, the nurse didn't know what 47 meant, just that it was above the acceptable level.  I sighed and didn't ask further.  (It's still bugging me.)

I like my numbers to mean something.  I like to wrap my head around more than an arbitrary value and know how it's derived and what effect a fluctuation up or down will have.

How many other numbers do I take for granted as having some intrinsic value without really knowing what they mean?  The ones most commonly suspect are those regularly provided without a unit of measure.  And it's not that they're really dimensionless, but simply knowing the value is supposed to be a good enough indication in itself.  Not everybody needs to know the units behind some of the numbers we use so often, but I hate not knowing.  For example, if I say that my blood pressure is 130/80, the time right now is 2:48 and the year is 2006, those all give some relative or implied reference, but what is the dimension of each?  And does it really matter if you don't know?

.....

Here's some very tangible number crunching you can really sink your gums into and puts a familial spin on this otherwise tangential topic:

Tavish has been spitting up with alarming consistency since birth.  Say about 30 times a day, to be conservative.  Also let's say he donates about a teaspoon each time.  (This, too, is conservative.)  Allowing that he didn't really start churning it out until after the first month, we'll give that to him as a freebie.  And he should grow out of it around eight months.

So the math on that looks like:

(30 times a day) times (30 days a month) times (7 months)

= 6,300 teaspoons of baby puke

= 8.2 gallons or 31 litres

Pretty gross, huh?

Edumacation

I already feel a little sorry for the future teachers of our two boys.  I just know that I am going to be exceptionally critical of how they are instructed in whatever curriculum they find themselves immersed a few years from now.  And, in direct contravention of a comment I made towards the end of a recent weekend post, I will be soliciting opinions from a few more experienced parents whose opinions I respect and value.  And a couple contemporaries to get their feedback on the matter.

The importance of my unstinting vigilance, yet to be unleashed, was driven home a few days ago.  One of my wife's good girlfriends knows these two kids (which is a very simple way to summarise a very complex situation, but let's not go there).  An older sister and younger brother.  The brother, in grade two, has had problems with his reading for quite a while.  His dad made sure the school where both kids attend knows about this.

While recently working alone on an in-class reading project, the wee lad didn't complete his in the time allotted.  He struggled through as far as he could but didn't get as far as he should - at least in the eyes of the teacher.  So, as punishment for his dilatory perusal of the assigned material, he was made to stand at the front of the class and read out loud until the teacher deemed him suitably chastised.

I've only met the boy a small handful of times, but I very nearly saw red when I was told what happened.  I can only imagine what his dad will have to say to the principal.  Public speaking is one monster of a phobia, and to foist that onto a seven year-old boy already struggling to hone his reading comprehension is some sort of cruel that makes me want to lash out and smack something.

To think that my own sons will potentially face similar tribulations at the hands of whatever professionals are given the responsibility of their formal education gives me the heebie-jeebies.  A single episode like that is enough to mar a boy for years.  For life.

There is some large (and growing) part of me  - part geek, part dad - that is totally stoked about helping my sons with their homework.  Not doing it for them, by any means, but helping them to develop the mental acuity to think through problems, think creatively, and develop a passion for learning.  When I hear of the sort of speed bump (brick wall) like the one I just described thrown up in front of a young mind, it pisses me right off.  It also reinforces the importance of parental involvement in their kids' education.

I've thought a lot about it and will for some time to come.  Public school?  Catholic school?  Private school?  Home schooling?  A neighbour lady across the street from us is home-schooling her only son with great success -- and enthusiasm on the boy's part.  (The same lady who offered whatever help we may have needed when there was an ambulance in our driveway and my wife wrecked our mattress.)

This will be a hot topic of mine for quite a while, I'm sure.

Predictability

Spontaneity is a wonderful quality to contribute to a marriage that is intended to last.  Keeps some spunk in what can become a trudge through mundane routine.

My wife for example.  She's probably the more spontaneous of the two of us.  She has this habit of reaching up like she wants to kiss me or something and then, all cobra-like, jabs in with her fingers primed and grabs my nipple.  Then gets all martial-artsy and defensive when I attempt to return the favour.  (Which is funny since, you know, she and Coordination sort of parted ways in childhood.)

Me, I can be spontaneous too.  Impromptu dance sessions in front of a bewildered wife are not uncommon.  More often than not to a catchy tune on a TV commercial.  Dex is likely to join in now, which just adds to the fun.

I can't deny that I'm more predictable than my wife.  Take Bon Jovi, for example.  Every single time we hear one of their songs on the radio - more specifically, from their Slippery When Wet release - I am driven to observe it was that particular tape that got me through China.  One of the first purchases I made in Hong Kong (our first of five city stops on a grade nine trip) was a spanky new yellow Sony Walkman.  But I didn't have any tapes with me, so borrowed one from a fellow student traveller.  Livin' on a Prayer is now ineluctably tied to China.

For the first while Amy would simply sigh patiently and remind me (not unkindly) that I'd mentioned the Bon Jovi - China connection to her on a number of previous occasions.  I'd get incredulous and frown, chagrined, making mental note not to bring it up again.  Until I did.  Now, I either catch myself and do no more than share a knowing glance with her, or, just as likely, get the first part of the observation out before she cuts me off and stares at me with a look suffused with great huge gobs of regret for ever having made the mistake of sleeping with someone as stultifyingly stupid as me, and please, God, Please! let whatever gene he has bypass our kids.

(I do though, sometimes, say it on purpose.)

*****

The same sort of predictability with our dogs.  There's a new stuffed animal or plastic toddler yard implement ravaged on nearly a weekly basis.  I catch it post mortem and get all sorts of upset.  But quietly, mostly.  (Not at just that -- it's the camel and straw thing.  Now, I'm tending towards suppressed resignation.)  Amy and I have had this discussion before.  I normally start by muttering various imprecations under my breath, grab a pair of shoes and stomp as softly as I can through the kitchen and into the yard.  I get more riled up as with every scrap of stuffing I clear I step around various turds that nearly all have paw prints through them and can't help but picture the dogs lounging on our furniture and licking our boys.

It takes me about an hour to cool back down after that.  I normally start by cleaning violently.  Dogs' paws.  The back landing where there are bits of tree dragged through the doggie door to chew.  Print-ridden bed sheets.  The dishes.  Whatever's immediate and subject to purification by cloth, broom or appliance.

I don't complain too loudly and Amy sort of walks around me for that time.

*****

I think I ended up in a different spot than I intended here.  I was sort of trying to make the point that unspoken communication is fully as important in marriage as what's said.  Sometimes even more important.

String theory

In a rare departure from kid-centric videos, here's one of the Boxer.

Farley will get into absolutely anything she shouldn't which, if left unsecured, she inevitably does.  When raking the leaves last weekend I left the shed door open, allowing her to steal a roll of twine.

Here, viewed from our kitchen window, she utterly defeats it, much to the obvious amusement of Declan.

In the background you can hear our teriyaki chicken breasts sizzling on the stove.  That pile of rocks is intended to surround the pine trees in a rather less jumbled fashion than shown.  I, uh, just haven't gotten around to it yet.

Housekeeping

A couple months past due, but I've updated my list of sorted posts over there on the sidebar. 
Or here.  (If you subscribe via Bloglines or another RSS feeder, you know this.)

Also, some time ago I bookmarked a very fun photo tool where you can make your own motivational posters, the source for the past couple pictures under my 'about' header.  I got rather carried away and did up a whole schwack of them over a couple evenings when I should have been sleeping.  (Many of the things I can lay claim to having accomplished often end with the proviso: "...when I should have been sleeping."  Mea culpa.)

So instead of churning them through the turnstile of my front page, I've pasted 'em all into a photo album of their own and will add to them as the whim strikes and the appropriate photo crosses my eye.  Also added yonder to the sidebar, or again linked here.

New video going up for Monday.

"Your overconfidence is your weakness.""Your faith in your friends is yours!"

Part of a recent comment got me to thinking.  Francois said, "If parenthood has taught me anything, it's that mercy is weakness. Children are like water and rules are the levees."  As soon as you talk to his wife, you find that Francois ain't nearly as despotic as he tries to come off, but he does incite cogitation.  (And sometimes exasperation.)

I agree with the principle of the second bit.  Rules and boundaries are uber-important.  However, I also think that healthy doses of mercy and compassion, doled out within those boundaries, are equally critical.  This, to me, seems intuitive.  (I'm not saying the despot doesn't think so, but the context of the comment got me to thinking.)

For me, this raises one of the single biggest dilemmas my wife and I face in the rearing of our boys.  Where do we set boundaries and how rigidly do we enforce them?  We don't want a couple of feral teenagers rampaging through our house some years from now, but neither do we want unthinking automatons stumbling about in some masculine parody of the Stepford Wives.

To date, Amy and I (in our minds, anyway) have done a pretty good job of setting routines, being mostly strict about adherence to them, and inflicting all sorts of unconditional love on our kids within that milieu.  As I think most any parent fears, we don't know for sure if we're doing it right.  And there are times we're driven to thoughts of chucking one or both boys through the nearest window out of sheer frustration; surely a sign of the wantonness of our children and not our own shortcomings, right?  (Filial defenestration is never the answer.)

I mean, the adults that get puked out the other end of this parenting gig when Amy and I are forced to take a passive role in spawning our sons will tell the tale.  At the same time we're afraid (or at least moderately alarmed) of what men we'll see, we also don't want that fear to colour our current interaction with them; that is, it would surely suck if we failed to do something for fear of it being the wrong thing.  Inaction can be no less a bad thing than a bad action.

Ah!  Fecundity is a double-edged sword!

Also, I think that Western customs and traditions concerning parenting are seriously fucked.  It is considered the norm for two youth, barely out of childhood themselves, to spend some vigorous amount of time revelling in the fleshy delights each finds in the other, form a nest of their own away from that of their parents, set aside childish ways and assume the rather onerous task of bringing new life into this world under the naively hopeful assumption they'll do it right.  Instinctively, perhaps?  All I know, two and a half short years into this long journey, is that aside from knowing how to keep 'em fed, warm and relatively clean, it's been mostly guess work.

That's why we were both pushing 30 before having kids.  We weren't ready until then.  I can't fathom being my own parents' age (early 20's) and assuming the heavy mantle of Parenthood.  I would have seriously fucked it up, or at least done a poorer job than now.

In this role, Amy and I consciously draw from our childhood experiences and we like to think we're mature enough to cull the bad ones from the good, then apply what we think is the best of the morass to our boys.  Since what we're doing is so normal, we don't think much about spurning offered aid or running counter to what may have been suggested by those more aged and experienced.  WE are the parents and WE will do it all by ourselves, thank you.  Our combined ignorance is more powerful than any amount of lucidity you can foist on us!

Seriously, one maxim that runs through my head on a very regular basis is: it takes a village to raise a child.  To think that two people can (or should) be nearly entirely responsible for that task is some strange combination of hubris and naïveté.  I think the aboriginal North American peoples had a good thing going until Whitey showed up.

I'm not saying we are doing a poor job, by any means.  I do think there is a better, healthier, way to raise children.  One thing our Western civilisation excels at is doing things the hard way.

Simon Drew the big fat poo

I am not a fat man.  I ate my way into the ranks of the medically 'obese' in my second year of university, but I've otherwise maintained myself in a constant flux of variable pudge over the past 30-ish years.

On her fridge, my mother has a picture of my brother and me seated on our back step (when we still lived in Ontario) eating a couple of Ritz crackers.  We were about two and four at the time, respectively.  I think that's the last time I would have been slender and it's silly that I think about it so much.

My fashion statement in elementary school consisted of sweat pants and loose-fitting clothes.  That changed to jeans and loose-fitting clothes in junior high.  Not because I slimmed down, but sweat pants on a pubescent boy, I quickly learned, are like a campground on May Long Weekend: somebody's gonna pitch a tent right quick.

My eating habits were the shits, growing up.  I came home from school and I instinctively snacked.  Often two slices of buttered bread.  Or maybe an entire sleeve of Saltines or Ritz crackers, smeared with that cheese goo I can't find anymore you squish out of the sausage-shaped plastic tubing.

I've used food as a crutch for very many things in my life.  When you think about it, it's one of the most pleasurable and sensual activities one can enjoy with minimal effort.  How many other activities simultaneously trigger all five of the physical senses?  How alluring and addictive is that?

Off the top of my head I can say I've used food as an escape from guilt, sexual frustration, indecisiveness, unpleasant responsibility, worry, stress, anger, fear, hurt and - the ubiquitous culprit - boredom.  Almost any unpleasant sensation can be quelled, to a degree, by eating.

It's a temporary preoccupation that so fully engages one in the activity that mental faculties are largely suspended for that brief respite.  And since the suspension lasts only as long as the eating, there's the temptation to keep eating to stave off whatever it is that's not nearly so pleasurable as that entire bag of Cheetos.  A terrible vicious circle.

The stress of sliding grades and an unfulfilled desire to get laid and have a relationship in university drove my weight up to 240 pounds, aided and abetted by lots of beer 'n hot wings.  I've always worn my weight well, but not so much then.  Taking a year off school and away from the environment so damaging to me was one of the best things I did.  By the time I graduated I had succeeded at least marginally in all areas that originally induced consumption of mass quantities.

I made the conscious choice at the end of a bad relationship to channel my self-pity into a renewed drive to exercise.  I started to run.  I played squash.  At my physical peak (such as it was) I ran 40 to 50 km a week and played squash six days out of seven.  I was finally under 180 pounds for the first time since junior high.  I entered two half marathons and ran each in under two hours.  Physically, I felt fucking awesome.

I noticed that my sense of self confidence escalated exponentially and I smiled like I knew something others didn't.  Exercise was the new drug and I was having fun doing it, and it was good for me.  Food was a means to an end and no longer a diversion.  I never would have had the confidence to approach the woman who would become my wife if I hadn't reached that point.

Having kids makes it really easy to stray from healthy habits and fall back onto a path of least resistance.  I stopped playing squash; I rarely ran.  I got a gym membership that went largely unused but for a brief flurry of morning forays.  (Steam room was nice though.)  I crept back up over 200 pounds earlier this year.  I told myself that free time outside work had been abdicated in favour of domestication and perceived responsibility to my family.

That's not true.  It's just a lot harder to carve out a niche.  The last couple months I've been doing that.  I get up between 5 and 5.30 and head down to the basement.  Instead of investing in any sort of weight set, I spent 20 bucks on a 12-lb sledge hammer and start my mornings by flinging it about in a series of 'useful movements'.  (The incredible dorkiness of that sort of workout is part of the appeal.)  Then I go for a 5-k run on the treadmill. (I ran outside until the end of September -- I'm a fair weather runner.)  Finally, I do some squats and push-ups.  I stretch, go have a shower and feel great.  Energy level is nearing a high.

The hard part is that first minute after the alarm goes off -- early morning initiative is an elusive bitch.  Writing it down like this helps keep it going.  And still, there are days when the laundry's not done til midnight and the baby wakes up at two and won't go back to sleep, and his crying wakes the toddler... I end up skipping those mornings.

(The post title, by the way, is my most memorable and least-favourite nickname culled from somewhere in my grade school days.)

Hush little baby

As I implied in a previous post, Declan is becoming rather difficult to put to bed at night.  He's pretty darned good from Supper Time right through until Snuggle Time.  After, not so good. 

I put his last book down, look compassionately in his eyes and share with him the simple fact that it's pushing Bed Time, and why don't we go and get his pyjamas.

He starts off passive enough.

"Uhhh, nope."

I ignore this and walk to his bedroom to pull a pair of PJs from the hanger.  He gets a litte recalcitrant at this point, dropping sharply towards disgruntled in short order.  Though he still looks adorable in his PJs and blue terry-cloth bathrobe.  He counts the kisses he gives his mom but picks up speed in the same way an outdoor busker's audience does when asked to clap in rhythm.  His rapid-fire smooching sometimes yield the result of a head-butt on Mom's nose.  I'm sure Declan thinks it's tears of unbridled love for her son in his mother's eyes.

Tucked under his layers of bath towel, hand-stitched-by-arthritic-grandmother-quilt, and then a garishly coloured comforter, he's normally read two stories in bed.  It's when the second is closed that things start to get ugly.  I put away the book, turn off his bedside light and he gets this terror-stricken look in his face like somehow my presence in his room is the only thing holding some horrible spectre at bay.

He leans up and points at the floor beside his bed: "Daddy seep too?  Pwease?"  When he sometimes wakes crying in the wee hours I'll come and breathe loudly beside his bed until he (and often I) drifts off to sleep.  Now he wants it to get him to sleep.

I don't want to make a habit of him needing me to get to sleep, so I close the lead shielding around my heart, kiss him once, say goodnight, turn around and leave the room, closing the door behind me.  Every night the past week, he's died a thousand horrible deaths behind that door after being flayed, drawn and quartered, and poked in each eye with a sharp stick.

The worst was Saturday when he went on for fully 20 minutes without ramping down.  I did the dishes and tidied the living room to distract myself.  When the sound of his voice changed, I realised he was sprawled out on the floor and pleading through the crack at the bottom of the door, jamming books against it in a vain effort to get me to read to him.

"One moh storeeeeeee... Dadeeeee... pweeeeaaase!"
"Snuggle... pwease!"

I swept up the shattered remnants of my hardened heart and went to rescue my firstborn.  When I opened his door, I was careful not to smack him in the head, still lying down.

He had stripped the covers from his bed, taken off his bathrobe, removed his pants for some reason and stood there sobbing, tears and snot making four wet trails down his red face, each hand clutching a Disney Babies book thrust out to me with arms rigid in supplication.

I redressed him and cuddled him exhaustedly - and quickly - to sleep on the couch.  He woke again the instant I put him back in bed, but his plaintive wails only lasted five minutes before petering out.

*sigh*

Sunday night was headed the same way.  Thankfully, my wife was home (she was sitting for a friend's toddler on Saturday so they could go see Cirque du Soleil) and she suggested that we get the Jack Russell to sleep with the boy.

Enter Jango the Jack, close the door before he can get out and see what happens.

There was some minor sobbing, a faintly heard, "Puppeeeee... bed pwease," and then nothing.

Free from his kennel at night, Jango found solace by providing it to our boy.  And we managed to scrape a little together for ourselves as well.

In defense of neologism

Talk about learning our letters and being literate! Why, the roots of letters are things. Natural objects and phenomena are the original symbols or types which express our thoughts and feelings, and yet American scholars, having little or no root in the soil, commonly strive with all their might to confine themselves to the imported symbols alone. All the true growth and experience, the living speech, they would fain reject as “Americanisms.” It is the old error, which the church, the state, the school ever commit, choosing darkness rather than light, holding fast to the old and to tradition. A more intimate knowledge, a deeper experience, will surely originate a word. [...]  What if there were a tariff on words, on language, for the encouragement of home manufacturers? Have we not the genius to coin our own? Let the schoolmaster distinguish the true from the counterfeit.

~Henry David Thoreau