Prodded

I received the most remarkable thing in the mail a few days ago: a letter. Not a bill, advertisement, magazine, or postcard. A real, handwritten letter. First, I was bemused, then amused, and then, at last, delighted, rejuvenated, and quite resoundingly prodded. I left this blog hanging on a dour note, for which I apologize. The autumn, as it often is for us, was difficult. Moods shift downward as our span of the sun's nourishing rays diminish. Troubles mount. There are dinners to plan, children to tend, and writings to write. And, alas, sometimes the dinners spoil, the children get wild, and the writing, well, the writing pauses, waiting for wistful moments of wonder and inspiration. Those moments, by the way, don't come. Not even when you bribe them. Trust me, I've tried. Instead of waiting then, I have found another piece of wisdom, of which the letter (mentioned above) reminded me. Be mindful. Do not wait, but mindfully work. Step by step. Inch by inch. If my infant son waited for the perfect moment to crawl, he'd never leave my lap. Instead he wobbles, wiggles, and does everything he can think to do (and that his clumsy, but terribly cute physical form will permit) to reach his goal. We don't walk from the womb, and we don't write without work, failure, and practice. Endless, aching practice. I have practiced. In my own quiet space, reveling in my own words, and terrified of sharing them, even the little ones with outsiders. There is something personal about one's writing, something embarrassing. Like underwear. Everyone knows you have it, but you don't really go around showing it off. Well, then, here is a bit of boxer, or brief, or, well, I think this metaphor has stretched sufficiently.

We spent a delightful Christmas here in Maryland. My parents, beloved abuela, and Fox's parents, brother, and we spent the weekend here in our little apartment, snacking on the cookies my mother lovingly prepared, and the dinner I hesitatingly offered. I cooked too much food. All agree, and so next year I must plan a different menu with more care to portions. Either that or invite more people. Part of me leans toward the latter, since I like food, and food in very great quantities seems a wonderful holiday tradition. Still, there is room for improvement and adjustment. After all, I didn't really need a ham the size of my Christmas turkey, did I?

Fox and I also attended the American Philological Association (APA) meeting in Philadelphia this year. The boys stayed with my parents in New York. A wonderful time was had by all. Fox and I dined at Alice's Tea Cup in Manhattan (Chapter II), and we spent far too much money on books in the APA's book room. The APA is good for many things. It prods, but for some reason not as effectively as the letter I received. There is something remarkably powerful about a personal letter. Perhaps it was always so, or perhaps it is a product of our instant, demanding society. I cannot say, but I loved receiving a letter. I have begun to compose my response, and I will send it out with Tuesday's mail. I, unlike my good friend, will type my letter. His handwriting stood the test of travel, but mine will not. It has devolved to the point where even I am hard-pressed to determine its meaning. My handwriting is a cipher, and I lack key cryptographic skills.

Kit is learning to crawl, and he has started to babble "da-da, da-da." This cheers my heart. He has also become a ravenous little creature, eating two or three times within the space of an hour. Only then will he settle for the night. Is it a growth spurt? Possibly. Whatever it is, it is impressive to watch. Where, I wonder, like a kid before a skilled magician, does he put it all?

Thorn is, well, two-and-a-half. "No" is his favorite type of expression. He even yells at his computerized devices. "Press the button," one device says. "I don't have to," Thorn exclaims! Such are the shapes of his moods. Still, he is my happy, little man. Full of verve and life, bouncing like his much beloved Tigger. His vocabulary increases daily, and the fears I had that he would not speak, or would not speak well, are allayed.

Fox, well, I'll let Fox write her own update. This was mine. Time to close up shop.

Sparrow flies.

Curlilicious

Sparrow: Your hair looks beautiful today. Did you do something different?
Fox: I washed it.

Toddler Theology

Today, Thorn and I prayed over a snack:

Me: Shall we pray?
Thorn: Ok!
Me: Say with me: God...
Thorn: God...
Me: Bless...
Thorn: Bless...
Me: Cookies!
Thorn: Cookies! No way! Silly God.

Thorn giggles, ascribing humor to God. "Silly God!" he repeats, wondering why I'm laughing so hard, but eager to get extra applause. Later, as I munch a few grainy, gluten-free squares with my boy, I consider Thorn's clarity of vision. Even though the first cultural constructions have already begun to box him, his mind is still amazingly unfettered. He sees nothing odd about pouring tea on his soy yogurt, calling his Latino soccer player doll "mommy," or praying for his uncle's dog's knee. It has been particularly interesting to me to see his theological development. What is God to a child?

Papa: Where is God?
Thorn: In the picture.
Papa: No...where is God?
Thorn: Oh no! Missin'.

Thorn has always seen Jesus in pictures, and the similarity in how he is portrayed allows Thorn to point out "God" whenever there's an image in his picture Bible, framed on the wall, or in Sunday school. (Amusingly enough, the similarity is less in skin color and more in the white robe and red sash.) For Thorn, God has a definite shape. God is also a person, because Thorn talks to God, and expects to be heard. How, then, can God be there when Thorn prays, but missing when he looks for a visible presence? Then again, we're talking about a kid who thinks he's invisible if he covers his eyes...

What are your own experiences with young children and God?

--

Addendum from the breakfast table (Thorn calls himself "Tah"):

Me: God loves Tah.
Thorn: God loves Tah so much.
Me: Where is God?
Thorn: God follow Tah home in car.
Me: From church?
Thorn: Uh huh. God see mommy from back chair.

Time Boon Go Boom

I've divided my life into fifteen-minute increments, stolen here and there around childcare. Some exercise here, some laundry-folding there, some book-reading while feeding, some character development while in the shower--as I've said in earlier entries, you make it work, or you go nuts.

The boon is that I can now fit into fifteen minutes more than twenty-something me could have done in two hours. Heck, two days. I remember reading that Octavia Butler told aspiring writers to read when they were young, because they'd never have that much time again. Amen.

Fifteen minutes is all I need to accomplish most things. So what happens when both the toddler and the baby manage to sleep for two hours in the afternoon? First, of course, you don't know it will be two hours, and you go sneaking around, desperately cramming in all of the fifteen-minute things you can. I did tendonitis exercises. I put my legs on ice while finishing a book. Then, not believing my luck, I wrote one, then two, 1,000-page letters. I revised a short story, pausing to look at Kit's crib every few minutes. Mania increasing, I did the dishes. I read a poem my brother had written. I reviewed vocabulary, wondering how I'd construct THANK YOU GOD FOR TIME in ancient Greek. I sketched out ideas for a couple of characters. I read a commentary on the Biblical book of Numbers, and began reading a book on Mohammed.

By the time I got to the readings, the mania was becoming bewilderment. When would they wake? What could I do next? What would happen if, heaven forbid, I ran out of tasks? I was walking in an unexpected garden, but instead of admiring the plantlife, I had begun to worry about bees. Or if I'd lost my keys. Or where I'd parked my car. So I stopped. I sat down. I freaked out at the stillness, and then looked outside.

Trees. They're always there outside the window, but I don't look out, unless I'm giving Thorn some lesson on the weather, the seasons, or the rampant deer. I believe everyone ought to know their neighborhood trees as a courtesy, because they'll still be there, most of them, when we've gone. I made a pact with myself to identify the trees closest to the window. When the boys awoke in tandem, screaming, I bundled them out the door and into the grass.

The trees were wild apples. I confess this knowledge pleased me more than any other accomplishment today.

Traveling With Thorn and Kit

It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. My imaginings were terribly dismal. I envisioned hours trapped in a moving automobile with a screaming infant and a temperamental toddler. The four-hour drive to New York would last an eternity. I would live and die innumerable times before the New Jersey Turnpike released me.

It was not like that. Not at all. Well, there was a little screaming. But not as much as I feared. We made our first 'long' trip safely and securely, and it only took five hours.

My mother's birthday was Saturday, and as a gift, Fox and I decided to take the boys to New York for the festivities. Mom, Dad, and my grandmother had yet to meet little Kit face-to-face, owing to crazy schedules and my father's continued poor health. This was a wonderful opportunity, and so we took it. Fox and I had a bit of trepidation. We had mastered traveling with Thorn, or, rather, he had mastered traveling on his own, and we were the beneficiaries of his skills. Kit, on the other hand, is still in the stage where life revolves around naps and nipples. He is also not fond of the car seat, preferring warm arms and plenty of snuggling. Still, we wanted to do this, and determined we packed the car on Saturday morning and began the trip.

Kit did better than I could have imagined, and Thorn was perfect. He did not fuss. He did not complain or whine. He occupied himself with cars and trucks, and when automobiles lost their allure, he chatted with Fox and me. His conversational skill has improved dramatically. When he speaks of the cars he sees, or reads the letters on road signs, I am awestruck that less than a year ago his only words of note were 'dog' and 'dada'. So many words are spoken now, from simple things like 'book' to strange words like 'Narwhal'. And he gains more each day.

We had an excellent time in New York. Thorn enjoyed the cake that was made especially for him, and my mother seemed to have a marvelous birthday. Kit was adorable, and barely fussed at all. He traveled from one pair of loving hands to another, and was content in all. We left yesterday, and while the journey home was rougher than the journey to New York, I still have very little to complain about.

These boys were meant to travel. Next trip? Cincinnati.

Running Word Bowels

Most writers write a hell of a lot of crap before (and during, and after) they write something good. Regarding that crap: when I'm blocked, I often turn to my favorite exercise book, Brian Kiteley's The 3am Epiphany, and choose a page at random. Sometimes I work hard to make the exercise a creditable work, and sometimes I just write to get the thoughts flowing again. It works. Like Liquid Drano, it works. The words flow again. But there's still one issue to be conquered--probably the most pernicious. Perfectionism. I told myself I'd never post stuff here unless it was perfect. Well screw that. Here's my writing at its most unedited, slushiest form. About something trite and motivational. The exercise asked me to write 500 words using only imperatives. This is all I could come up with. A rushed loosening of the word bowels in my head.

---

Write. Take up the pencil and pad, or pen and parchment, or keyboard and screen, or lipstick and napkin. Make marks. Make a scribble, make a scrawl, make a right-slanted ladder with your southpaw. Don’t bother with calligraphy—that’s stalling. Turn the marks into your letters. Turn the letters into your words. Be an alchemist. See the paragraphs? Or avoid the paragraphs, but don’t avoid the kōan of grammar, syntax, punctuation, spelling. Don’t expect tomatoes without a trellis. And your tomatoes—your perky little red characters, scurrying around on your page, or your screen, or your napkin—make them your people, but also everyone’s people. Don’t leave your people eating the same soup and the same bread. Don’t give them the same trees, or the same bends in their moonlit paths. Don’t expect their adjectives to line up like ducks, waddling into padded cells. Forgive their individual preferences, and catalogue them. Make them suffer, make them die. Give them redemption. Suffer the purgatory of authorship. Cover the page: a blank place is an abomination, the writer’s hell. Follow Dante to your muse, but don’t expect bliss—this isn’t your Beatrice. Expect criticism. Better yet, welcome criticism. Encourage criticism. Practice ways of agreeing with criticism. Become the yogi of the critical. Get zen with your critics. Practice seeing the points of view from real people, and your imaginary people will become real.
 
Drop what you’re doing, but not the baby. Bounce the baby, if you must. Use its screams to enhance your frustration. Rock the frustration into the page. Lead your sentences with milk-sops. Give your wailing writing block an unwashed pacifier. Suckle your sweetest lines from the breast, before editors come with their five colors, their rice gruel, their cheap soy. Become sleepless, but don’t let your passage cry it out. Cradle your words: you can never give them enough attention. But don’t let the little mites walk over you—they’ll learn to do that, once they start walking. Behold your characters speaking on their own, doing their own blathering things, ruining your careful plots like self-important kittens in your yarn stash. Learn to twine red and green and find the compliment in it. Knit your characters socks for their oranges, their coal. Just don’t forget to fill them: an unfinished chapter is an empty Christmas indeed.
 
Watch how the lines begin to stretch thin, your hands and mind faltering. Continue shoveling fresh words onto your mound of slush, for surely an editor will leave you a few sentences, or a few words, untouched. Do not blame the editor, even though the public’s disdain of your writing is more her fault than yours. Go ahead and write what you feel, the blank page long forgotten—you’ve jumped from the ledge, and only a coward would waste time looking up or down or doing anything but experiencing the flight. Land eventually, and land on your feet. Let your editor decide if what you wrote will merit a trip to the hospital.

Work Stations

Kit has...paused. He needs some serious sleep, owing to the fact that he hasn't slept since he woke up this morning at 6:50am. Oh sure, maybe he has closed his eyes for a few minutes. That's it. He demanded constant motion on the partof mommy. I hope he sleeps for three hours. And Thorn, for that matter. I need the break.

A long morning. An impossible morning, in fact, if it hadn't been for two things: Sparrow's adoring notes in the office and dining room, and work stations.

I've come to the conclusion that work stations are essential for any stay-at-home parent. Like we keep toys in every room so as to amuse the boys, I keep some small bit of work in every room so as to make good use of time and limited energy. There are books in the bathroom, by the lamp in the living room, at my desk, and behind my pillow on the bed. My Christmas sock knitting project is on the coffee table. An ancient Greek textbook is currently at my desk, but it is usually at the dining room table by the omnipresent cup of tea. There are portable Greek flashcards to carry around with me. There's a handwritten journal near my daylight lamp. My story idea book follows me, but usually ends up in the office. And of course, the newly-minted sketchbook for character and map ideas. If I had all of these things at my desk, I'd never get any of them done. As it is, I can squeeze in an artistic-intellectual life around my toddler and baby. And that is the first step toward sanity, my friends.

Now to go and meditate until I feel normal again. And then to work on a problematic third chapter. I've playful thoughts in my mind that haven't had a chance to find paper. With mommy brain, it's quite possible they'll fly away before I capture them.

...or Kit could wake up. Arrrgh.

Stretching the Mind

The worst part about pregnancy is the mental funk. Sure, women will complain about stretch marks and sleeplessness and a hundred other things far too TMI for this blog, but get beyond the superficial body complaints, and you'll find many women (and sympathetic husbands) lamenting the mind-fog inevitable with producing more human beings.

The sluggish pregnancy-brain killed my ability to work as an editor--at least temporarily. The good thing about this being our second child is that I know the fog goes away. A light--a beaming sun--atop the mountain, and I'm almost there! Right? Right.

Three weeks after my cesarean section, I've learned that the best way to get rid of the post-birth anxiety and mental foggery is to do something creative. Usually for me, "creativity" is synonymous with "words," but I've branched out of late. Witness the calligraphy: a two-dimensional medium I've dabbled in since middle school. And an apt phrase, don't you think? A veritable crusader's standard against pessimism and paranoia. Right in front of books about... um... sex and gender. Not exactly something the status quo will fix. Sigh. I guess I need another framed bit of calligraphy. "Real men get vasectomies"?

Another branch is into the realm of crafts. Despite a fairly good amateur eye at two-dimensional media, my crafts skills are competent, at best. All the more reason to practice! Since we're having Christmas at our home for the first time this year, and we want to be able to enjoy my tree for more than a day, we decided to make the tree as toddler-safe as possible: no breakable objects, no tinsel, and minimal wires. To that end, I've begun folding the first of about fifty origami animals for decoration. Seen here (with the adorable backdrop of Kit's footprints) are my first attempts: a goldfish and a seahorse. Thorn very much liked the seahorse. He pranced about while I was folding it, making up his own seahorse song. I may have to tape the seahorse and his pals to the tree so that I've some ornaments left, come Christmas!

The other Christmas project was envisioned, but never started, in 2006: knitted stockings. Back then, I had just started knitting and had no idea how long a project actually took. I designed stockings for every single family member on my side and Sparrow's. Ha! I'll be lucky if I get the basic four done by December. I've never knitted in the round, but my pattern says it's for beginners, so I may just make my deadline. Thorn and I will have green-and-gold stockings, and Sparrow and Kit will have gold-and-red ones. Thorn's stocking will be embroidered with a hawthorn tree; Kit's with a shield. I promise I'll post my efforts--once they begin to look like stockings, anyway.

My final series of mental exercises involves ancient Greek. I'm beginning...at the beginning...with the alphabet. Many Greek letters I already know, since the average English speaker references a few of them in everyday conversation (alpha and omega, for instance). Others are identifiable because they look the same as our modern alphabet, at least in capital form. My banes, right now, are Phi, Eta, and Xi: Φφ, Ηη, and Ξξ. Once I've got them down, it's on to the first vocabulary and grammar! So exciting. And not just because I'm married to the professor.

Friday Night Quiet

Fox has gone to bed. I should be there myself, but I cannot sleep. Hours tick by on the big clock in Fox's room, the sun shifts just outside her window, and the nurses enter three times a shift. It is peaceful. It is dull. We try to fill our day with work and small amusements, but we are both afraid. Not over the health of our baby, who has been so strong this sluggish week, and not over Fox's health, which continues to be rosy. We fear the unknown. We fear more waiting. Will there be labor, or, as the doctor said this morning, will Fox have a Cesarean Section? If the latter, we know the date: Bastille Day - the 14th of July. But, will Fox's recovery be as difficult as it was last time? The doctors suggest it will not be, and part of me wants to trust them, but part cannot.

Routine is an essential component of our lives. Fox and I live well-ordered existences, and we are weaker than we ought to be when faced with imminent and difficult change. This is especially true when that change is preceded by unexpected disruption. I hope we can find the energy to reorder our days when they are no longer defined by a hospital's schedule.

I am also afraid, because I will need to leave Fox in the hospital on Sunday night. Fatherhood calls, and Thorn needs me. It was a difficult decision, but we did not have any choice. We will make the best of it. Fox's computer works better in the hospital than mine. We will attempt a Skype connection that will remain open while I am at home and she is in here.

Do not worry, I tell myself. Do not add trouble to today from tomorrow. Today is trouble enough. And, more, there are worse troubles than ours. All are healthy. All have food and shelter. Our problems, blessedly, are first world problems.

Now, to read about another world, another time, and the grueling lives that lived in it. Pearl S. Buck's The Good Earth will see me to my sleep. 

Kit's Sneak Attack

We find ourselves on a beautiful July 1 in the labor and delivery section of our local hospital. Last night Fox's water broke, signaling that Kit was ready for the world. A little ready anyway. Fox is not in labor, and the doctors hope to hold Kit in the womb for a few more days. No matter what happens, our baby will have to spend time in the NICU. We are scared, but our physicians are amazing, the nursing staff top notch, and the hospital the nicest we've ever seen. Maybe our roguish Kit will be born on the 4th of July? Talk about fireworks.

The Twenty Week Balloon

Twenty weeks pregnant. My baby is the about the length of a banana, but I have been feeling more like a balloon. I weigh less than I did with Thorn at this stage, but my tummy is larger. The dreaded swelling has already begun. I waddle a bit more, I sleep a bit more, I heartburn a lot more, and bending over is like... well, bending over a balloon. So I put on a red shirt today. Because if I must be a balloon, I will be an AWESOME RED balloon.

Preemptive Plea

First-time mothers can be silly in a lot of ways. One of the worst ways, in my case, was to avoid taking much of the help people kindly offered me. So I'm going to preemptively beg, in this case:

Since Sparrow won't have nearly the same amount of time off after the Raspbaby is born, I'll be stuck alone with a new baby and a toddler, trying to exclusively pump while recovering from a c-section. This is a recipe for depression.

I know many of you have suggested you would like to come to see us. I ask two things:

First, that you avoid coming to the hospital. With Thorn, our room was over-filled most of the day, and while I loved everyone there, at night I paid for it in exhaustion and panic attacks. If you must come, I'd love to see you, but limit your time, and then take Sparrow out for dinner so I can sleep. :P

Second, after you've given us a few weeks to recover, by all means, come visit. Come in droves. Come and STAY. I'll need the help and the company! Especially in September.

Screwing the Little (Wo)Man

I got this email the other day from a supervising manager. Basically, it suggested Logos move me to a freelance capacity rather than my contract capacity. Reasoning wasn't given, and the only thing which would change, the manager said, would be my method of reporting completed projects. The manager went on to say that I was not in trouble and that I couldn't call until two days later.

In my work as a manager and sub-manager, and this was one of the worst combinations of polite wording I've seen. Never mention anyone is EVER is trouble, even if they are. This isn't preschool. Unless we're talking theft from the company or sexual harassment, the only "trouble" one can be in is in terms of less productivity or worker interaction. Those aren't trouble issues: those are communication issues. You can't solve them with email.

Second, don't treat your worker like an idiot. If you're not mentioning the reason for the change in contract, it's clear you don't want a record because something uncomfortable is involved. Moreover, anyone who knows anything about freelancing knows that it carries a 25% tax rate. I'd consider that more of an inconvenience than how the work is reported. It's why I ask for a higher rate of pay when I freelance.

I called the manager today. I was told 1) that work on the project was winding down, and she wasn't sure there was enough work for me to do my forty hours anymore; 2) that she had noticed I had been doing less work of late; 3) that my freelancing was more convenient for them.

The last statement was undoubtedly true: Logos employs innumerable writers and editors as "freelancers," which is another way of saying, "poorly-paid university students with no benefits." I have virtually no loyalty to this company, being a project-only editor myself, so mentioning that it benefits the company only increased my perception that it was screwing me for their bottom line. The first statement was either a lie or sign of a misinformed manager. I know that the editor directly above me has had no shortage of work to give me. The second statement I cleared by telling her I was sick last week, as I emailed her, and that I've never had less than a forty-hour week since I was hired, even doing unpaid overtime to meet deadlines. I also told her that I would prefer to quit than have the inconvenience of a 25% tax rate for the mere three weeks left in my contract.

She got quiet. She said she'd talk to my superior editor. And (no surprise), she wrote back saying that my contract would remain the same for as long as there was work of the current level on the project.

I've a distinct feeling they tried to pull one over on me.

Turn off the Tube

T.V. Turnoff Weeks this year are April 25-May 1 and September 25-October 1. In anticipation, I offered a cake to anyone who would turn off the television for a month and didn't end up happier as a result. No takers thus far.

I used to watch television avidly. I share, with others of my generation, various cartoon references to Smurfs, Thundercats, etc. I watched Star Trek: Next Gen with my family as it aired, as well as DS9 and some episodes of Voyager. I've seen a whole corpus of old films through Turner Classic Movies. And for a time in my late teens, I was obsessed with the Weather Channel.

When I moved out of my parents' home, I took a television with me. I didn't hook it up. Suddenly a whole world of other things became available. As I went through therapy for panic disorder, depression, and agoraphobia, I began to articulate my life goals. I realized how incompatible they were with television-watching.

When we got married, I convinced Sparrow to avoid hooking up the television, keeping it for games and DVDs. When our first child was born, we were faced with tiny bit of precious time in which to be alone together. It wasn't going to be spent in front of the tube! This past year, I can count the movies we've watched at home on one hand, mostly done in a group with the D&D guys. Our living room is filled with books, and the television is hidden in the office.

Our son never sees television at home. Grandparents have their own rules, however, and my respect for them is such that I wouldn't snap off the set as soon as walk in the room. I'd like to, especially with eventual dementia concerns, but it's a different generation, and they are adults who make their own choices. I hope, perhaps, that viewing this blog may help them understand why I am so adamantly against television.

In a policy statement by the American Academy of Pediatrics (AAP), children under the age of two should NOT watch television. I have repeated this to other parents, to grandparents, at the doctor's office, and at my church nursery. Few people take it seriously. After all, most people watch television, and few of us are really harmed, right? One woman even stated, as she flipped on a screen for the "benefit" of two-year-olds, that I shouldn't believe everything I see reported television.

Heads up, lady: I don't watch television. And here's a list of reasons why:

Regarding Adults

1. Multiple studies have linked television-watching with depression, either in developing it or lengthening it in those already depressed. Unhappy people watch an average of 20% more television. If you or an immediate family member has a history of depression or depressive tendencies, it's best for everyone if the tube is gone.

2. Watching something interesting on a screen lowers a person's blink rate. A lower blink rate late at night can lead to episodes of insomnia.

3. You burn more calories doing anything other than television-watching except sleeping. A study limiting the amount of time a group of adults watched television found they were passively burning more calories than the unrestricted group. And I need not cite the endless studies linking television-watching with obesity, not only from lack of exercise, but from food product marketing.

4. Like your news programs on television? Research has shown that periodical readers are significantly more informed than television viewers. (With stations like FOX and MSNBC, are you surprised?) Moreover, less television-viewing is associated with more community involvement. Translation: You want your neighbor to turn off the tube, too!

5. Marital intimacy can be maintained better through virtually any other medium. Discovering and participating in mutually enjoyable events, from exercising to writing together to cooperating in a game, have the benefit of interaction. Even writing a letter to an absent spouse is better for intimacy than sitting side by side watching the tube. Some couples say they speak when they watch television. Afterward, yes, but during? All I've been witness to are shallow one-liners. That isn't intimacy. You could be commenting to a wall. It's also multi-tasking. No one can argue that texting while driving is as alert as driving alone, nor that talking to one person face-to-face and another on a cell is going to be as in-depth.

6. On the subject of marital intimacy, adult television is frequently full of sexist stereotypes reinforcing discursive power about what makes a "man" or a "woman." The more you watch, the more you are likely to agree.

7. More television means less reading. While society emphasizes teaching children to read, it is just as crucial to keep mental alertness into adulthood. Television watching is associated with various forms of dementia in the elderly.

8. Not watching television frees you from a bulk portion of materialist societal pressure. Now I know what you'll say: what about billboards, shirt logos, magazine ads, etc.? My answer: turn off the tube. A month later, have a fashion talk with a friend. You'll see what I mean.

Regarding Children

1. Research has shown that even in the presence of television as "background noise" for children ages 1-3, parent-child interactions were less frequent and child attention spans were shorter. This would translate, as reported in the American Behavioral Scientist in children ages 1-6, to less verbal skills, reading skills, and greater propensity to watch television than read.

2. Television shows and commercials lead to distorted thinking and behavior in children and adolescents. Research reported by the AAP cites television as having negative effects on sexuality, self-image, nutrition, substance abuse, and aggression, among other things. Children as young as two have shown brand preference based on commercial viewing, or will avoid objects others portray as negative on-screen. There is a correlation between television-watching, substance abuse, and early sexuality in adolescence. Metabolic rates for children watching television are lower than for children at rest.

3. Watching television teaches children to be passive absorbers of information, not analytical thinkers. There is no interaction: a child cannot ask a question of a program or challenge what he or she is seeing. Young children have virtually no life experience to tell them that what they're seeing isn't how things are in the real world. This requires parental interaction, and in households were television is on most, parental involvement is least. Many parents admit to putting children in front of the television so they can have personal time.

4. Television-watching can lead to poor sleep quality in children, not only from the low blink rate issue, but from nightmares. Over a quarter of parents report their children upset or losing sleep over an upsetting event on television.

5. Children's shows have more violence than any other form of programming. Much of this violence is made "cute," with few consequences shown for a violent choice over a non-violent one. According to the AAP, children's shows average twenty acts of violence in an hour. I know many people who despise equating television violence with real violence. Frankly, there are now too many studies in desensitization to avoid the connection. The AAP goes so far as to state that, " as much as 10% to 20% of real-life violence may be attributable to media violence."

6. Watching television marketed for young children can actually lead to developmental delays. In an article published in the Journal of Pediatrics in 2007, babies aged 8-16 months who watched Baby Einstein videos were harmed, not benefitted, by the supposedly educational tool. For each hour spent watching the videos, there were 6-8 fewer words in the children's vocabularies.

7. In one study regarding language development, children learned better from a real adult than from a video of the same adult demonstrating the same thing.

8. Television is an excellent way for children to pick up sexist attitudes about gender relations.

9. Areas of the brain which activate through creative, imaginative thought are under-used in children who watch too much television. (Too much being defined as ANY viewing under the age of two, and over two hours in older children.)

10. More television means less reading, for you and your family. The television-viewing habits of parents and siblings most greatly influence a child's eventual viewing habits. If you want your children to read more and watch less, model the behavior. Reading for yourself where your child can see you for only fifteen minutes a day can have positive repercussions on that child's view on the importance of reading.

There you have it, or at least as much "it" as I can write in an hour. There will need to be more studies done regarding passive media in other formats, which is increasingly popular in the younger generations. Many friends of mine do not watch television on a T.V. set, but on the computer or phone. Passive watching on the Internet is increasing.

Reading about television usage over the last decade has convinced me that turning off the tube is a good first step to intellectual, emotional, and societal health. But why take my word for it? Do some research for yourself.

Sparrow's ADDENDUM: This from TEDxRainier on how babies learn language.

A Thorny Week

Thorn is in bed, though not asleep. Some nights, if he is particularly cheery, he'll sing the "dadada" song, a vaguely verbalized homage to the old man, before he goes to sleep. This may be coupled with coos and vrooms as cars get in on the action. Not that I give him cars to sleep with, but one always ends up in the bed. Maybe toys do move when you're not looking...

It has been a momentous week for little Thorn. He has grown gastronomically and verbally.

As you may know, our child is a picky eater which, when compounded with his many allergies, makes Sparrow and I nervous wrecks at mealtime. Thorn will eat any green vegetable and all sorts of veggie-derived milk products, but it has been an uphill struggle to get him to eat fruit and meat. This week, as always, we tried a few new contenders. Not only did we discover he will eat kale like candy, but that he'll eat chicken if it is made succulent through Sparrow's genius. Coupled with jerky, Thorn is actually getting a non-soy protein for once! Another problem was solved in the fruit arena: red pears are apparently wonderful. Poor kid thought an apple I was cutting up today was a red pear. I should say poor me, because I got to clean up the results!

Even more exciting for us was Thorn's sudden verbalization of two new words this week. His first two-syllable word, "nummy," applies to all non-liquid food, and he now uses it a thousand times a day. A differentiation much appreciated! Even better was his sudden identification of me as "mama" this morning. I had begun to wonder how much longer I would be "dad" or a noncommittal grunt. I'd almost given up, but Sparrow was diligent, and it was he who got the precious "mama" out of Thorn's mouth. Preen, Sparrow, preen.

We took Thorn out today to our 13 week prenatal appointment. He was very charming, offering all and sundry items from his bag of gluten-free Cheerio alternatives. He sat between my legs and watched Dr. B curiously as she rubbed down my abdomen with various instruments to find the Raspbaby's heartbeat. These were ultimately to no avail. We were sent downstairs for a sonogram. While an active, headstanding Raspbaby was a great relief for Sparrow and I, such an image did not impress Thorn in the slightest. The bright red biohazard box did, though.

Afterward, even though we were getting into his naptime, we went to Red Robin, which Thorn loved. He watched everyone come and go, rocking and pointing at the enormous carousel horse decorations. The only food he can have much of there are the fries, but he did tolerable justice to them. I feel as though I am projecting the image of a bad mother, with my son sitting there eating fries with water. I want to explain to every passing frown that he's actually thin for his height. That he eats asparagus at home! Ah well. Strangers had best forgive what they don't know.

Craving Oranges

This pregnancy has been different from the last. Not very different, but different enough that I've needed something of satifying sameness, so that I could be assured, in my irrational pregnant way, that this pregnancy is as normal as the last.

Things which were different:

* This morning sickness came earlier and hit much harder. It also hasn't lasted as long, fading around the twelfth week. I was still sick nineteen weeks into my last pregnancy.
* Pregnancy brain has started earlier. I'm as forgetful as a... a...
* A much more intense sense of smell.
* I haven't put on nearly as much weight as I did in the first trimester, last time. Probably due to the morning sickness. Or running after a toddler.
* I don't have this sense of impending change. Partly because this was such a surprise that I'm still in shock; partly because I've done this before.

But never fear! One thing is definitely the same. I'm craving INSANE amounts of oranges. At least one every day, and juice. And anything citrusy, like pineapple on pizzas, blood orange sodas, grapefruit, even lemons. And I know this is because of pregnancy and not just because of this horrid infectious disease I happen to have, because normally? I despise oranges. Especially in juice form. I'd eat a thousand grapefruits before I'd touch one orange. I'd even eat a lemon in the raw before an orange. And yet here I am, devouring the things like candy. If the pregnancy didn't sink in before now, this is the turning point. I can't crave oranges and not be pregnant. No can do.

The Fruit Stage

Thorn was "Bluebaby" before we knew his gender; today, we continued in the tradition of berry-naming the fruit of our loins by dubbing our Christmas surprise baby the "Raspbaby." We had the Raspbaby's first ultrasound earlier today. For all the surprise and worry and anticipation the wee creature caused us, the Raspbaby looked very content, nestled right in the center of my womb, with full knowledge of a right to existence. Relief flooded through us at the baby's strong heart: 164 beats per minute, to be exact. Right on schedule developmentally, which puts the baby's due date around August 11th. I'm tempted to say this is a girl already, since Thorn was always a week ahead developmentally, even though we knew his conception date. He came three weeks early, and was already over seven pounds when he was born. In contrast, I, a girl, was a very small baby: a little over five pounds. But there are many factors influencing development. I weigh over ten pounds less now than I did when I conceived Thorn, and a heavier mother tends to make for larger babies. Anyway, as we've told all and sundry, we do not care about the gender, really. We just want to move beyond the fruit stage and start using a real name! Is it a little K or a little V? Come back in early March, and we'll let you know.

Book Rants

Apologetics Bible Rant:

Hey, article-writers in my apologetics Bible. I'm getting a bit annoyed at your setting up postmodernism as the straw man, using the most extreme of its arguments to characterize it (no one can truly know anything), and then using postmodernist deconstruction and historical point-of-view to prove your points. Please acknowledge that postmodernism has and does inform current historical methods, including the ones you're using.

Pornland Rant:

To Gail Dines: not all of your readers are going to be liberal feminists. Some are moderate or conservative feminists, who may not agree with your usage of politically-charged metaphors. Don't alienate your allies.

Also, you are not up to date on women's usage of the Internet. There are more women on the 'net than men, and roughly half of porn viewers are women. Please add five or six more chapters to your book to deal with this.

/Rant

New Year's Resolutions

Last post of the day! This one is simple, and possibly the one I ought to have done first (uh oh, guilt already!): New Year's resolutions.

1. More Bible-reading, in addition to comparative religious study. I just got an awesome apologetics Bible from my parents-in-law, so I'm reinvigorated.
2. Eat properly and work out. Which I did do this past year, but it's the sort of thing you have to re-commit to when the holidays roll around, neh?
3. Submit at least one story for publication per month, once my editing contract is over.
4. Get my take-home exams to Dr. G so I can finally seal the deal on that lingering degree.
5. Assist Sparrow in his dissertation work. One chapter will be done by the end of the Spring semester.

I make resolutions every year. And I do see improvement over time. After all, I haven't vowed to "do everything perfectly" this year, as I did when I was (much) younger. I guess I'll have to re-visit this post and see if I've done all I vowed by year's end. I think I can!

What have you vowed for 2011?

Women as Pastors; Women as Wives

"903.5. Women in Ministry," Manual 2009-2013, Church of the Nazarene:

The purpose of Christ's redemptive work is to set God's creation free from the curse of the Fall. Those who are "in Christ" are new creations (2 Corinthians 5:17). In this redemptive community, no human being is to be regarded as inferior on the basis of social status, race, or gender (Galatians 3:26-28).

Acknowledging the apparent paradox created by Paul's instruction to Timothy (1 Timothy 2:11-12) and to the church in Corinth (1 Corinthians 14:33-34), we believe interpreting these passages as limiting the role of women in ministry presents serious conflicts with specific passages of scripture that commend female participation in spiritual leadership roles (Joel 2:28-29; Acts 2:17-18; 21:8-9; Romans 16:1, 3, 7; Philippians 4:2-3), and violates the spirit and practice of the Wesleyan-holiness tradition. Finally, it is incompatible with the character of God presented throughout Scripture, especially as revealed in the person of Jesus Christ.

If Nazarenes can interpret Paul with this sort of nuance regarding ministry, why do I still hear the same stone age preaching about men ruling the spiritual household in marriage from Nazarene pastors and teachers? Those admonitions regarding women in marriage come from the same Pauline letters as the admonitions regarding women in the church. The Manual says women can be pastors, and therefore lead a church. Are pastors therefore saying that because women are female, they cannot use a spiritual gift of leadership in the home? What if the man has no gift for spiritual leadership? Does he lead by virtue of his penis?

I have seen this passage from Genesis used as a reason for gender division in marriage:

Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you. (Genesis 3:16, to Eve)

But this is a CURSE, people! This is part of the Fall of Humanity. The Manual clearly states that being Christian frees us from the curses of the Fall. Why, then, did I see this verse used in church as an insight about marriage?

Marriage is a partnership. There is no rule, save that of God. Women don't need an intermediary between their souls and Christ. And children don't need all members of the household to have a penis in order to lead them spiritually. There is no "obey" clause in a Nazarene wedding service, and there shouldn't be an "obey" implication in Nazarene sermons.