Lift Up Your Hearts!

The United States is a pretty good place to be if you're a girl.  When we think of girls in need of rescue from sexual oppression, other countries come to mind, such as Thailand, Afghanistan, China, and many places in Africa.  Yes, there is sex trafficking in America, brought nearer the surface through big events like the Super Bowl, but it's not generally a place where to be born female is to be born into especial danger.

And yet there is a form of sexual slavery here that endangers our girl children, and that it is not on the order of life under the Taliban is no excuse for not fighting it where we can.  Jennifer Moses, writing in the Wall Street Journal, exposes one battle front in Why Do We Let Them Dress Like That?  Why do so many barely-teens adorn themselves like a child molester's dream?  And why are their parents complicit?

Why do so many of us not only permit our teenage daughters to dress like this—like prostitutes, if we're being honest with ourselves—but pay for them to do it with our AmEx cards?  I posed this question to a friend [who replied,] "The girls in the sexy clothes are the fast girls. They'll have Facebook pictures of themselves opening a bottle of Champagne, like Paris Hilton. And sometimes the moms and dads are out there contributing to it, shopping with them, throwing them parties at clubs. It's almost like they're saying, 'Look how hot my daughter is.'" But why? "I think it's a bonding thing," she said. "It starts with the mommy-daughter manicure and goes on from there."

I have a different theory. It has to do with how conflicted my own generation of women is about our own past, when many of us behaved in ways that we now regret. A woman I know, with two mature daughters, said, "If I could do it again, I wouldn't even have slept with my own husband before marriage. Sex is the most powerful thing there is, and our generation, what did we know?"

So here we are, the feminist and postfeminist and postpill generation. We somehow survived our own teen and college years (except for those who didn't), and now, with the exception of some Mormons, evangelicals and Orthodox Jews, scads of us don't know how to teach our own sons and daughters not to give away their bodies so readily. We're embarrassed, and we don't want to be, God forbid, hypocrites.

I wouldn't want us to return to the age of the corset or even of the double standard, because a double standard that lets the promiscuous male off the hook while condemning his female counterpart is both stupid and destructive. ...  But it's easy for parents to slip into denial. We wouldn't dream of dropping our daughters off at college and saying: "Study hard and floss every night, honey—and for heaven's sake, get laid!" But that's essentially what we're saying by allowing them to dress the way they do while they're still living under our own roofs.

Brava! to Ms. Moses for exposing the problem and taking a stand against encouraging our daughters to think of themselves as prey.

On the brighter side, Heather reports that, thanks to the near-hysteria over sun exposure, it is now much easier to find modest bathing suits for girls than it was when she was a child.  An SPF-50 bikini serves no purpose.  I can't wait to see Faith's new purple shorts-and-shirt combo suit this summer!

We had salmon last night for dinner.  It was good:  rubbed with olive oil and Old Bay, then grilled, served with marinated grilled zucchini slices and homemade French fries spiced with Penzey's Chili 9000 and cayenne pepper.  Porter chose a good wine to accompany the meal.

The other accompaniment was a little less haute cuisine.  I've written before about the mp3 player in my head that grabs onto a theme and won't let go.  This time it wasn't a tune, but something equally repetetive (and, after a while, annoying): The best fish, and the freshest fish, is Finney's fish, French-fried!  Not an exact quote from Oh, Say Can You Say?, but there's no doubt of the source.

I love Dr. Seuss books, especially when reading to grandchildren.  But as romantic dinner music, they could be improved upon.

It hit me suddenly, while reading about refugees housed in Japanes school gymnasiums, that this is the time of year we attended a school-wide program for Janet's school, held in their gym.  We were healthy, happy, dry, and well-clothed—with personal hand- and foot-warmers to boot—and were nonetheless deeply chilled before the program ended.  And that was further south than the troubled area of Japan.  That also made me realize that when you hear reports that make the refugees' need for fuel seem nearly as important as their need for water, it's not so they can tool around town in their Toyotas.  Fuel for transport is vital, of course, but kerosene heaters are a common source of heat for Japanese homes.  I can't imagine what Janet's apartment would have been like at this time of year without kerosene—or rather, I can imagine it all too well.

Here's an update from the team Stephan's friend is working with in Japan.  It will give you a good idea of their plans for the work.

Look what we discovered!

In the following scene, T is Stephan's friend who is in Japan helping D, the pastor whose work I mentioned in Helping Japan, a Local Option.  I have to give some credit to Facebook, as I only knew about this because FB showed me M as one of the (not so random) short list friends on D's Facebook page when I was checking it out.  Stephan put the pieces together from there.

Janet, who travelled to Switzerland, and there met and married

Stephan, who had lived in Japan, where he had became friends with

T, who was in Japan for a few years and worked with

D, pastor of a church there, who has a son

J, who met (in Orlando?) and married

M, a good friend of Janet's from childhood!

When will I learn not to trust product labels?  I tasted these delightful cocoa almonds at the Daleys' and didn't resist when our local Publix had them on a buy one, get one free sale.  They were just as good as I had remembered, and Porter agrees with my assessment.

The problem?  Hidden away at the bottom of the ingredient list—which otherwise is agreeably small, for a snack food—is that hateful word, "Sucralose."

Now, I'm not opposed to artificial sweeteners for those who want to use them.  Xylitol, for example, is an important part of my dental care, and I don't want any well-intentioned busybodies trying to ban it.

But I'm also in favor of full disclosure when it comes to food products, and hiding artificial sweetener behind small print is cheating.  One ought to be able to assume that a product is sweetened naturally unless otherwise clearly informed.  They could at least have used the same upper case letters that boldly inform me that this product "CONTAINS ALMONDS."  Really?  A product named "Cocoa Roast Almonds" contains almonds?  What is the world coming to?

Japan is a rich, modern country and doesn't need help after a natural disaster the way places like Haiti and Indonesia do, right?

Wrong.  Even if you ignore the nuclear power plant problems, no one country has the resources to handle a disaster of this magnitude.

Janet and Stephan each lived (separately) for a year in Japan.  Janet's friends are fine, being located on the other side of Tokyo and surrounded by mountains.  Stephan's friends are closer to the troubled area, but apparently are also well.  One was even in the U.S. at the time of the quake; near to us, in fact, studying at the Orlando campus of Reformed Theological Seminary.

He and a team of others are even now en route back to Japan, bringing not only manpower but also water purifiers and other equipment and supplies.  They will be working with a small church that has been shuttling supplies—not to mention human contact and hope—to places the government has yet to reach with aid.  It began with one trip and one truck, and has been expanding tremendously as neighbors and businesses have become involved.  You can read about the project at www.spendyourself.org, the website of one of the team members—the son of the church's pastor.  And if you, like me, prefer to support individual, local relief efforts when you can, that site also provides a tax-deductible way to help the team help the Japanese.

I'll have to say that despite Stephan's recommendation, it was a bit of a struggle for me at first, because of some negative experiences with that particular denomination.  But as I had  recently spoken forcefully about the need to transcend differences, even serious theological differences, whenever we can work together for a common goal—well, I knew this had just enough of the flavor of God's sense of humor to make it important.

Whether you want to support the team or not, I recommend following www.spendyourself.org for the story of small triumphs of hope, in the midst of great tragedy, that you won't hear on CNN.

How did you celebrate St. Patrick's Day?  We braved the crowds and streets awash in green beer to see Freud's Last Session at our favorite Mad Cow Theatre.  Once again I must be grateful to my husband who drags me to such things when I'd rather stay at home because my revision of Phoebe's Quilt is bumping up against its April deadline with an unthinkable^* amount of work still remaining.

There are perhaps a thousand wrong ways to craft a play about a hypothetical meeting between Sigmund Freud and C. S. Lewis, but playwright Mark St. Germain achieved the impossible:  a show that is intellectually honest, fair, and respectful of both the character and the viewpoints of each man.  Similar respect, fairness, and honesty shone through the performances of Steven Lane (Lewis) and Terry Wells (Freud) under the direction of Mad Cow's Rick Stanley.  As it turns out, St. Germain's inspiration was Harvard professor Dr. Armand Nicholi's The Question of God, so if I'd only remembered my own blog post from six years ago, I wouldn't have been so surprised at the excellence.

After the performance we had a chance to ask questions of the director and the actors, and if there was one overwhelming impression I took home from the audience's response was their appreciation, tinged with astonishment, of an example of two people with strong, heartfelt, and opposing ideas engaging in discourse that is both substantive and respectful.  In truth, I was a bit shaken to realize that ordinary civility has become a thing at which to marvel.

You can see excerpts from the play at the official New York site.  I have to say that I liked the work of Lane and Wells better, though it's not fair to judge based on small clips.

Oh, and what does this have to do with St. Patrick's Day?  Well, C. S. Lewis was born in Ireland.  Not that St. Patrick himself was....

Here's a Volkswagen plant in Germany that makes me think of the (former) World of Motion ride at EPCOT.  (H/T MMG.)

I'd imagine the cars from such a factory cost a pretty penny cent, but it's still cool.  If I were a worker, however, I'd at least be asking questions about what the side effects might be of all the magnets under the floor.

I mentioned Speculoos à Tartiner before, when in January this unusual Christmas gift caused both U.S. Customs and the TSA concern on my return from Switzerland.  Now that Porter and I have been in the same city long enough to broach the jar, I find it deserves a post of its own.

The giving and receiving of this liquid gold at Christmastime should become a tradition on the order of stockings hung by the chimney with care.

Speculoos à Tartiner looks and spreads like peanut butter, and tastes like a Biscoff cookie.  Thus far we have only sampled it on bread—plus a small, furtive spoonful this morning in the interest of journalistic accuracy.  For the future I'm thinking pancake, waffle, and ice cream topping, fruit dip, frosting for a creamy vanilla cake, and a new twist on cinnamon rolls.  What would you suggest?

It was with much trepidation that I looked at the nutritional data on the label, but it's quite comparable to peanut butter, being higher in sugar, but with fewer calories and less fat.

I'm curious to find out if any of my readers can obtain Speculoos à Tartiner at a local store.  Wegmans, for example, is my court of last resort when it comes to unusual foods—what a pity the nearest store is 800 miles distant.  But there's always the Internet, where you can buy this confection under the name "Biscoff Spread":  $12.95 plus $5 shipping (continental U.S.) will get you two jars.  One could easily replace the marshmallow chicks in an Easter basket.

Or you could schedule your own trip to Europe.  True, that is somewhat pricier, but also infinitely more rewarding.  And in all likelihood it will earn you personal attention from Customs and the TSA upon your return.

Unlike many people, I never dreamed of visiting foreign countries.  I like being home.  If I have family around me and good work to do, why should I go elsewhere?

Well, God clearly intended to broaden me a bit.  Between having family now living overseas and the opportunities provided by Porter’s job, I’ve done a whole lot more travelling than I’d ever intended.

That’s a good thing—and not just because some of that travel has led me to valuable genealogical research opportunities.  Most recently I was struck by how personal it makes world events.

The tragedy in Japan has more impact on me because we were there.  Janet and Stephan each lived and worked in Japan for a year; we met Janet’s friends, went to her church, walked the streets of her town.  That may be why this video struck me harder than the more spectacular footage.  This is not where Janet lived, but it feels familiar, particularly the voice calling over the loudspeakers.  That makes the impact hit home.

I used to wonder why churches sent youth groups on week-long missions trips.  Sure, the kids do some good:  painting, some minor construction work, brightening some children’s lives for a few days.  It’s not that they don’t do work that needs to be done—but wouldn’t it be more cost-effective, and better for the community, to take the money spent sending American kids to places in need and instead hire local people to do the work?

I still think that would be a better use of the money, short-term.  But who can analyze the future value of creating a personal connection between young people and another place, another culture, another way of life?

Study can help build that connection; I still feel tied to Ethiopia because of a mammoth project I did in elementary school on that country.  But study and travel—if we can make it happen for our children, they and the world will be better for it.  I know of nothing more likely to erase false images (both negative and positive) than actual interaction with real people in real places.

If you give up pie for lent, can you still eat Boston cream pie?  The only thing that luscious concoction of cake, pudding, and chocolate icing has in common with pie is that both are round.

Then there’s the kind that is a different shape altogether—at least when I was in school we were taught that it was square.  Personally, I think this video proves that it isn’t square at all, but a very cool dude indeed.

Happy Pi Day, everyone!^*

Check out the latest Occasional CEO post:  A Little More Inspiration for more than a little inspiration.  The Occasional CEO reports on his visit with a "full-time, fully energized, meet-with-customers and visit-operations-in-five-states, entrepreneurial CEO who has held his title for over 55 years."

Read the whole post.  <Ahem.>  Read the whole post.  It will be worth your while.  I would quote the whole thing if copyright laws and my conscience didn't forbid it.

He grew up in the Great Depression, in the Great Dustbowl, without indoor plumbing or electricity. Today he has a Blackberry and wanted a tour of my iPad, wondering how much better the iPad2 would be.

He doesn't take the elevator. He doesn't wear glasses. He works out at least five days a week, including 30 minutes stretching and 30 minutes on the elliptical machine.

I could not tell if, over his long career, he made money faster than he gave it away, or vice versa. Suffice to say he is successful and generous in equal measure.

He has 95 years behind him and spends all of his time thinking about what’s in front of him.

If you, like me, have often despaired about the state of business in America—and even more, our general spirit—this story will brighten your day, and maybe your year.  At least ... that is ... if this is an American company. I inferred as much from the fact that its leader was awarded the American military honor, the Legion of Merit, in World War II.  But every country needs men (and women) like this.

Go.  Be inspired.

How to Be a High School Superstar:  A Revolutionary Plan to Get into College by Standing Out (Without Burning Out), by Cal Newport (Broadway Books, New York, 2010)

If I could recommend two books to help a 12-15 year old student prepare for college, it would be Alex and Brett Harris's Do Hard Things and this one.  Some of the political and religious views expressed in the former set my teeth on edge, but it's well worth the effort to get past that reaction, because Brett and Alex write well, and what they are saying is incredibly important, not just for teens who share their beliefs, but for everyone, of any age.

How to Be a High School Superstar is altogether different in focus, but I can boil the best of both books down to this:  Life doesn’t begin when you graduate from high school. or college, or grad school.  You can do hard things, good things, amazing things, now.  Or, rather, in a little while from now, if you are willing to put forth some effort in the right direction.

The good news from Newport is that the first step in the process is to stop putting so much effort in the wrong directions.  The standard college-bound rat race that overfills schedules with extra-curricular activities and turns a grade of A- into a tragedy?  Forget it.  Far from being a requirement for getting into your top-choice school, this will actually hinder your chances.  The admissions departments of the best schools are awash in applications from students with 4.0 GPAs and bristling with sports, clubs, and volunteer activities.  So how does a student stand out?

By becoming an interesting person.

Face it:  It’s hard to develop a personality when you spend most of your time surrounded by people your own age, doing mostly the same things in the same places.  It is interaction with the diversity and unpredictability of real life that sculpts and polishes us.  So the first step on the path to high school superstardom is to clear large swaths of free time in your schedule.  Get rid of those elective classes you think you ought to take but in which you have no interest, and quit those clubs you joined simply to impress some college admissions officer.  Drop out of the race for the valedictorian’s laurels—it’s true that being first in your class gives a significant edge with the colleges, but there are plenty of other ways to catch their eye where the competition is less fierce.  Being willing to accept a B+ instead of an A can trade a minuscule diminution of learning for a significant increase in free time.

I know, I know.  You’re envisioning sleeping till noon, endless video games, hanging out at the mall, or getting into trouble.  The devil finds work for idle hands to do.

Not a bit of it.  There’s a point to carving out all this free time, and that’s what the rest of the book is about.  Newport never mentions homeschooling, much less unschooling, but his strategy for becoming a person interesting enough to impress the toughest colleges is remarkably similar to the unschooling lifestyle.  It still requires effort—but effort that is different, less stressful, and more interesting.   It’s also, Newport insists, within everyone’s reach:  it doesn’t take a genius to do impressive work.  It does, however, require thinking outside of the standard high school operating procedures.

Neither Do Hard Things nor How to Be a High School Superstar has all the answers, but each presents a vision for encouraging ordinary students to become extraordinary human beings.

Don't leave middle school without them.

I'm still struggling with the book review I'd hoped to post today, so instead you get Jennifer Fulwiler's dry humor.  You can read the whole 7 Quick Takes Friday post at her Conversion Diary blog for other tidbits, like one man's Lenten beer fast (it's not what you think), but here's the section that set me laughing—and thinking—this morning:

Here’s what [Lenten disciplines] I decided on: a decade of the Rosary first thing each morning, and no adding sugar to my morning tea (a small but surprisingly noticeable sacrifice for me). And…well, umm…there’s one other thing that I couldn’t decide if I would admit or not…but I guess I’ll go ahead and say it:

I’m giving up cursing for Lent.

Now, before you form an image of me yelling at my kids to stop jumping on the $%^! couch or asking my husband to pass the $%&*!# salt at dinner, let me say that it’s not that bad. I don’t use bad words in front of the kids, and it’s not like I walk around spewing profanity when I’m around adults. It’s just that I’ve noticed lately that, well, sometimes I just can’t seem to express myself without pulling out a word from my pre-conversion lexicon. So I’m really working on that during Lent, hopefully adopting habits that will last for the long-term.

Giving up adding sugar to drinks was actually a last-minute addition to my Lenten plans. I’d always heard that you should give up something good, but I didn’t really get why, so I just went with giving up cursing for Lent. But then I heard people who had given up something good talking about their plans for Easter, and it all clicked.

For example, someone I know who gave up cheese talked about how she’s going to get a huge, lavish cheese tray for brunch on Easter. When I imagined her going that long 40 days with nary [a] bite of one of her favorite foods, I could see how the ecstatic joy of the Resurrection would hit her at an even deeper, visceral level as she bit into savory chunks of Camembert and felt the luscious Brie melt in her mouth after the long fast.

Then I pictured myself rising on Easter morn’, taking a deep breath, and shouting the f-word. Umm, yeah. That’s why giving up something that’s bad anyway doesn’t quite have the same effect. So no sugar in my tea for Lent.

Faith, at two and a half, is amazingly maternal.  She loves tending her new sister, or her "purple baby doll" if Joy is not available.  She's good at it too, and gentle.

And then again.... She was pretending to be, herself, Grandma's "sweet little baby."  Then she picked up a plastic toy, rapped it repeatedly against my knuckles, and cooed, "You' sweet little baby ... cut you' fingers off!"  I'm not sure where that came from, but I think it's related to the When Boys Have a Tea Party syndrome.

Ender's Shadow, by Orson Scott Card (Tor, New York, 1999)

Having read Ender's Game and Speaker for the Dead while visiting one son-in-law's library for the birth of a grandchild, it seems only fair to read Ender's Shadow while visiting the other son-in-law's library for the birth of the next grandchild.

Although I liked Ender's Game a lot, I was disappointed by the sequel and thus did not pursue the series any further.  But Ender's Shadow is Ender's Game as seen from the point of view of Bean, one of my favorite characters, and was recommended to me, so when I found it on the bookshelves here I couldn't resist.

It's good.  Maybe better than the original.  Not great, but fun to read and hard to put down for anything less than a grandchild.

Overheard this morning:  Jonathan (7) and Noah (4) were making breakfast.  I wish I'd had a hidden video camera; the whole show would have had a chance to go viral on YouTube.  As it was I only caught bits and snatches as I went about my own affairs.

Jonathan: I'll make the eggs,  because if someone else makes them they’ll put in something I don’t like, like green peppers.

Noah:  I’ll help!

Jonathan:  You get out all the eggs—not the ones with the writing on them.  [The hard-boiled eggs are marked with an H.]

Noah:  Bud, we need Tuscan Sunset.

Noah:  Do we have rye bread?

Jonathan:  You need a towel, because the eggs don’t stay still if you put them [directly] on the counter.

Noah:  Huh?

Grandma:  He doesn’t want to make egg rolls.  [A reference to Noah’s favorite joke, which he says he made up himself:  How do you make egg rolls?  You take an egg and roll it.]

<SPLAT>

Jonathan:  I’ve got it mostly under control.  Don’t anybody step there.

Jonathan:  One, two three, four, five, six, seven.  That’s good.

Noah:  I’m not putting this in.

Jonathan:  But it’s onion!

Noah: Yes, but I’m not putting it in because it doesn’t have one of those [a shaker lid].

Jonathan:  Mom might be able to guess that I used nutmeg, but she’ll never guess we used paprika.  Paprika looks like red pepper but it’s mild as a pild.  [Jonathan’s latest verbal venture is frequent use of “(adjective) as a (rhyming nonsense word).”]

Jonathan:  Bud, that was 'way too much Tuscan Sunset.

Noah:  Okay, but I know we love Tuscan Sunset.

Jonathan:  [putting away the minced onion]  M … mace …. [This for my friend who also keeps her spices in alphabetical order.]

[Noah’s interest wanes and he gets distracted by other things; Jonathan carries on.  Jonathan does not require a second person for conversation.]

Why did someone put this big pan on top of our best frying pan?

[Pours scrambled eggs into the pan.]

Oil!  Oil!  Oil!

[Pours scrambled eggs back into the bowl.]

[Pulls big jar of oil from cupboard.  Puts it back.]

Canola oil isn’t the only kind you can use.

[Gets olive oil mister from the cupboard.]

This makes it easier not to pour too much oil.

[Sprays oil, returns eggs to the pan, turns on the stove, and commences stirring.  Later, a call comes from the kitchen.]

Can someone help me stir?  My arm is tired!

The eggs were almost done, and soon we sat down to a delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs, accompanied by recitations from Green Eggs and Ham.

Thank you, thank you, Jonathan and Noah!

Ha!  Engish is cool, too.  German has its Eszett (ß) and Spanish its eñe (ñ); the world is full of accents and umlauts and other characters that make life interesting and typing difficult.  By contrast, English is plain and boring.

But it wasn't always so.  We had - ta da! - The Thorn.

From Michael Leclerc of the New England Historic Genealogical Society:

One of the most abused of all letters (and former letters) in the English language is the Thorn. In Latin, the letter was written as Þ (capital) or þ (lowercase). In English, however, the thorn looks like the modern letter “y.” The thorn is no longer used in everyday English. The Thorn was pronounced the same way as the digraph “th” in modern English. In proper usage it is NEVER pronounced as the letter “y.”

It is often found on old gravestones, usually in its y-shape followed by a superscript letter ("Here lies y^e body of"), and in the names of stores attempting to appear quaint (Ye Olde Coffee Shop).

Lest you think this is all ancient history, the thorn can also be found in Unicode, on Icelandic keyboards, and in html (þ = &thorn;).

I think that's cool.

In Bad Science, author Ben Goldacre delivers the following paean as part of a discussion of drug side effects.

I really enjoy the sensation of orgasm.  It's important to me, and everything I experience in the world tells me that this sensation is important to other people too.  Wars have been fought, essentially, for the sensation of orgasm.  There are eveolutionary psychologists who would try to persuade you that the entirety of human culture and language is driven, in large part, by the pursuit of the sensation of orgasm.

Far be it from me to deny the pleasure to which he refers, but the man has obviously never felt the sensation of holding a sleeping baby on his chest.

Joy is one week old today.  She is a remarkably good-natured child, or, as her Uncle Stephan would say, "chill."  She naturally sleeps for two hours at a stretch, and only fusses slightly when hungry.  Yet when she is awake she is alert, bright-eyed, and looking all around, and she eats with great (and noisy) enthusiasm.  Joy puts up cheerfully with being handed around from one person to another, whether in the gentle, even timid, arms of an adult, or the more enthusiastic attentions of her siblings.

Nighttime, naturally, is not quite so perfect.  That's when she's most likely to fuss, and to produce a large quantity of messy diapers.  But the other day Heather awoke beaming and refreshed—and you know you're a new mother when you can be so enthusiastic over having gotten 10 hours of sleep in five two-hour segments.

Joy had a visit to the doctor yesterday, and passed with flying colors.  I had an interesting discussion with her doctor when he did the maneuver-the-hips routine, checking for hip socket development.  He thought the Swiss custom of checking that with ultrasound iwould be more accurate, and guessed that the expense of the machines is probably the reason it's not done that way here.  Personally, I like the manual version better, except that here if there's any question they follow up with x-rays, and I definitely prefer ultrasound to that.

It's a lot of fun comparing notes on pediatric medical practices from one country to another.  Janet had a huge list of foods to eat or not eat while nursing, whereas here the admonition is usually limited to "use caution with strong-flavored foods like garlic and broccoli."  But the Swiss doctor said the latest recommendations for solid food after six months is a great variety, including citrus and eggs, to help prevent allergies, whereas here egg whites and orange juice are specifically held off until after a year—but for the same reason of preventing allergies!  One thing both sides of the ocean agree on is no honey till the baby's a year old, however.

Amazingly, Joy is the only baby I've ever known never to show any signs at all of newborn jaundice.  She's now up substantially from her 8 lbs. 1 oz. birthweight, weighing in yesterday at 8 lbs. 10 oz.

And, thanks for asking, my voice is slowly coming back.  Joy is a week old and she still hasn't heard "Grandma's voice," but I'm making progress.  I have a tendency to set myself back by talking croaking too much:  but Heather comes to my rescue and reminds me to be good.

Overheard during the flurry to get everyone out the door in time for church:  "Jonathan, now is not the best time to tell us all about grain elevators."

In my review, I mentioned that Ben Goldacre's book, Bad Science, suffers from a tendency to sneer.  Although he usually directs his disrespect at those with whom he disagrees, every once in a while he takes aim at his readers.  Take, for example, this footnote in the chapter, "Why Clever People Believe Stupid Things":

I'd be genuinely intrigued to know how long it takes to find someone who can tell you the difference between "mean," "median," and "mode," from where you are sitting right now.

I find that as insulting as some of the dumb questions asked by Sunday School teachers, the kind that have students sitting on their hands not because they don't know then answer, but because it's so basic and obvious they're embarrassed it was even asked of them.

From where I am sitting, I need look no further than my own chair.  We learned mean, median, and mode in elementary school, and if I was never clear on exactly when each was considered the best "average" to use, I could certainly define and calculate them.  I'd be shocked if Jon and Heather couldn't also.  But probably not Jonathan (7), and certainly not Noah (4), Faith (2), or Joy (five days), so I suppose our household average isn't so impressive.  In this case, I am smarter (or at least more knowledgeable) than a first grader.  (Though if asked about guns, or Star Wars, or several other topics, I'd lose.)

How about at your house?