Lift Up Your Hearts!

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?

When the human/bathroom ratio exceeds 6:1, procrastination is a bad thing.

A very bad thing.

Bad Science:  Quacks, Hacks, and Big Pharma Flacks, by Ben Goldacre (Faber and Faber, New York, 2010)

Bad Science was hard to read.  Not because the material is difficult (it's not), nor because I disagree with the author's positions (though sometimes I do), but because it is 258 pages of sneer.  Since Goldacre repeatedly states that he is bending over backwards to give his adversaries as much credit as possible, perhaps the sneer is unintentional, but it is no less an impediment.

Furthermore, casual statements like the one in which he implies that belief in a benevolent God is equivalent to believing in "flaky spiritual 'energy' that only alternative therapists can truly harness" unnecessarily alienates a large part of his potential audience. He continues this theme in the chapter on AIDS, where he dismisses those who point out that the single most effective method of preventing AIDS transmission is to avoid sex outside of marriage and the use of illegal drugs, calling them as irrational as those who offer AIDS sufferers beetroot and garlic instead of antiretroviral drugs.  He mocks Christian development agencies, implying that providing medical care, clean water, and the means to grow food and earn an income just isn't worthwhile if you don't also provide access to birth control and abortion.  Such statements do not give me confidence in the rationality of his approach to the other issues in the book.

And finally, if one is hoping to be a proponent of the rational, the scholarly, and the credentialed, it seems foolish to pepper your book with expletives.  They make the writing unpleasant to read, and seem as inappropriate in this setting as showing up with tattered jeans and multiple body piercings for a job interview at a bank.

So it's time to dust off my very own proverb:  The wise man recognizes truth in the words of his enemies.  Goldacre is inconsistent, I'll admit—excoriating the press for publishing frightening reports without backing them up with well-documented, respected, scientific research, for example, while casually and without documentation blaming Dr. Benjamin Spock for tens of thousands of avoidable deaths through his recommendation that babies sleep on their stomachs.  But mixed in with the chaff there are some very good points, and helpful hints for navigating the mess of contradictory news reports, especially in the field of medicine and health, that leave us throwing our hands up in despair of ever learning the truth.

If I had a T-shirt slogan for this whole book, it would be: "I think you'll find it's a bit more complicated than that."

Amen.  That's what he says, and what I'd say to him.  :)  Having worked in a research lab that published, in respected medical journals, the kinds of academic, peer-reviewed papers Goldacre holds up as a gold standard, I know that the system isn't quite as reliable and free of politics and prejudice as he would like us to believe.  It may be the best we have, and pretty good at that, but it has enough of the smell of a "good ol' boy" network to give me sympathy for those who take their findings directly to the media.

The chapter on the Placebo Effect is probably itself worth reading the book.  Why are injections more effective than pills?  Why does the color of the pill matter?  Why does the packaging matter?  How does the Placebo Effect help explain the greater effectiveness of name-brand drugs over generics of the same composition?

Useful, too, is the chapter on statistics and the reporting of data:  Why do drug companies like to compare the effectiveness of a new product to a placebo, when a much more useful comparison is with the effectiveness of the best production already in use?  How are figures from discredited studies or bad mathematics like a bad urban legend?  How can a report that there was "almost no change in patterns of [student] drug use, drinking or smoking since 2000" end up reported in the London Times as "Cocaine floods the playground:  Use of the addictive drug by children doubles in a year"?  (Much of the answer to the last lies in a misuse of statistics, but an immediately understandable factor is rounding error:  1.9 is not twice 1.4, but the one was rounded up and the other down.)

The story of a nurse jailed for the supposed murder of several of her patients is a fascinating example of the deadliness of statistics (and poor sampling technique) in the hands of a prosecutor who doesn't understand them.

Goldacre takes on a lot of sacred cows, from homeopathy to the pharmaceutical industry to the MMR vaccine scare.  Even I can recognize that for all his studies and statistics, he has misunderstood and oversimplified much.  But Bad Science is still a valuable book to read whether it changes your mind on anything or not.  It will make you more aware of what might, or might not, be behind the health information you learn from your doctor, your newspaper, the Internet, or your best friend.  A healthy skepticism is the servant of truth.

If you can get past the sneering and the profanity, you'll find Bad Science worth checking out.

Life is different for a newborn in a large family.  I feel rather ridiculous applying the label "large" to a family of five, but even three siblings is sufficient to give a baby quite a different experience from most American babies.  The first- and even second-born can easily become the focus of a great deal of parental attention and anxiety—which can be both a blessing and a curse. The third child, however, breaches the one-to-one parent/child ratio.  Many parents of one or two children choose to encourage their kids to be competent and independent at an early age, but once a third child enters the family, that's no longer a choice, but a necessity.

There's a lively discussion currently going on at Free-Range Kids about children who have too much done for them, and I was struck by the following comment:

[A]t my daughter’s school...the lockers for the special-needs preschool kids are right across from the NT [neurotypical, i.e. "normal"] second-graders. While the preschoolers' parents and [teaching assistants] diligently work with our kids to remind them of how to take off boots, jackets, put mittens in pockets themselves, there’s another group of moms doing all this stuff for their much-older children while they stand there like lumps of wax, arms out expectantly. It’s amazing to me that we have higher expectations of our three-year-old kids with special needs (mostly autism) than many mothers of second-graders do.

I’m hoping that one of these days, one of those mothers will glance over towards us and maybe wonder why we’re working so hard to teach our kids to be independent and decide that maybe it’s time for her children to do the same. To me, it looks like they’re working just as hard to handicap their NT kids as we are to teach our autistic kids to learn basic skills.

My first reaction—though it was not mentioned in all the long discussion—was, "these can only be children from small families."  No one else has time to help a non-handicapped seven-year-old put on his coat.

It leads me to wonder just what other unintended consequences there may be of the present practice—at least in North America, Europe, and China—of severely restricting family size.  I don't have time to give it much thought right now, but I'm open to suggestions.

Not only are children of larger families forced to be more independent, but for good or ill their immune systems get a greater challenge.  The advice given by some pediatricians to keep newborns at home and to keep most visitors away during the critical first two months becomes difficult with the second child and laughable after that.  We had hoped Baby Joy would delay her entrance long enough for us all to get over our colds, but she thought otherwise and plunged right into the viral soup.  Will this endanger her?  Or will it make her stronger?

The advantages of small families have been made clear:  more family resources available per child—or at least the potential for it—from money to parental time and attention.  The question that has not been sufficiently examined is, What are the disadvantages?  (Besides a terrific drain on the workforce and the Social Security system, that is.  I'm thinking mostly of the cost/benefit for the children themselves.)  Do small families produce children who are bright but selfish?  Do children from large families fare better socially but lag behind intellectually?  Are children who grow up with many siblings generally more, or less, robust than those from small families?  (Assuming environments that are similar otherwise, of course.)  Those are only some of what I consider to be fairly obvious questions; if they have been studied, I've missed the news reports about them.

Joy is three days old, and all is well.  She seems to have a regular fussy period between midnight and three, but other than that has been treating her parents well.  She sleeps well, despite the frequent checking, patting, and noisy chaos that comes with having three loving, young siblings.  She eats well, drinking in great, noisy gulps.  Mom is handling the engorgment stage as well as can be expected without having a nursing toddler to help out.  Grandma is happy to be done with meconium diapers.

It is a busy household.  Life with three active children doesn't stop just because a fourth had been added.  Chores must be done.  Maybe we could manage if Noah didn't wipe the table for a day or so (though life would soon get rather sticky), or if Jonathan didn't vacuum the living room floor, but if they neglected their daily task of bringing in wood we'd soon be very cold. 

School continues, also, though formal lessons were let slip a bit because the biys had worked ahead earlier in the week.  Informal lessons of course go on full tilt.  (I overheard just now a science lesson on mammary glands.)  I had hoped to provide more help in this area, and have a math idea I'm particularly eager to show to Jonathan, but having no voice has made this impossible at present.

Dinnertime is always exciting, as other families are not only bringing meals but staying (as requested) to share them.  One night we had sixteen people here—five adults, seven boys 10 and under, and the two little girls!  I've been managing to last through dinner , but have retreated to my room shortly afterwards.  I’m not sure which is the biggest factor:  (1) my need for extra sleep to speed healing, (2) my need as an introvert for time alone to recharge, or (3) my need as a person with strong opinions on many subjects to avoid a situation where there is lively, interesting conversation and I cannot say anything at all! ^*

Joy Ellen Daley
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
8 lbs. 1 oz., 19 3/4 in. 

  (click to enlarge)

There are many joys and privileges in life, and I count being present at a grandchild’s birth one of the highest.  But if I’d blinked, I’d have missed this one.

Joy Ellen has already asserted her independence, coming three days early; her siblings were all late.  Except for one friend from church, who prophetically nailed the date exactly, none of us were expecting this to be a February baby.

Perhaps Heather had a subconscious inkling, as she insisted that Jonathan, Noah, and Faith pack their own “birth bags” (toys to play with and special treats) on Tuesday.  (Her own preparations had been made earlier.)  She had been having unusual contractions for several days, pretty hard for Braxton-Hicks but not “real labor.”  They’d happen when she was sitting down and always stopped when she stood up.  My theory was that they were special “baby turning” contractions, since the baby had been in the posterior position.  Whether I was right or not I don’t know, but she had indeed turned the right way by the time she was born.

Even though I had packed most of my own supplies before going to bed, I was not at all prepared for the knock on my bedroom door less than two hours later.  “I’m in labor, Mom!”  I felt little sense of urgency, but continued to throw more items into my bag as I thought of them while dressing—such as a flashlight in case this turned into a car birth.  Then I saw Heather on all fours during a contraction….

We bundled the three sleepy siblings into the car and settled Heather in the rear middle seat next to Faith, getting underway about 1:20 a.m.  Since Dad-o was not with us this time—he was in Connecticut with his dad—Jon did the driving.  I was so grateful that it was he and not I that I steadfastly held my tongue as I watched the speedometer.  I really wanted to say, “Jon, I appreciate your law-abiding nature, but there are times when it’s okay to exceed the speed limit, and I think this is one of them!”  But perhaps he was right—getting pulled over by the police would probably have cost us more in time.  I did pay careful attention to the mile markers, however, in case I needed to call 911 and whisper, “My daughter’s giving birth on the side of the road,” hoping all the while they could understand me and not think it was a joke call because I had laryngitis and couldn’t croak out a syllable.

Fortunately, no such measures were needed.  We all sighed with relief as we pulled into the birth center’s parking lot.  Well, I did, at least.  Heather was much too busy moaning.

Jon helped her into the cottage, and I pointed the sleepy boys in the right general direction, then unbuckled Faith and carried her in.  Once in the birth room I realized that Jonathan was nowhere to be seen, so I set Faith down in a chair and went on a search mission.  I finally found him on a couch in the waiting room—I’d missed him the first time because he was totally covered, curled up under his coat.  He said he was comfortable and wanted to stay there.

So I made a trip to the car to bring in supplies.  Thus I apparently missed the loud scream as the midwife checked and discovered Heather at 10 cm and the baby ready to be born.  (Though later, when we were talking about it and I explained to Jon that I must have been at the car at the time, he still replied, “And you didn’t hear it?”)  Arriving back at the birth room, I picked up Faith again, heard the midwife say Heather’s water had just broken, and realized I needed to get Jonathan, pronto!  This is the second birth in a row I’ve had to go chasing down the hall for Jonathan—this time because I had no voice to call, but had to run to him and whisper!  We arrived just in time to see Joy’s head emerge, and after the midwife removed the single loop of cord from her neck, the rest of her slid out smoothly.

The midwife, forgetting that the plan had Noah assigned the task of determining whether the baby was a boy or girl, made the joyful announcement as she placed the baby on Heather’s chest.  Fortunately, Noah didn’t seem to be bothered.  We had decided earlier that either Jonathan or I would cut the cord, depending on how we felt at the time, but Jonathan declined and I was both holding Faith and concerned about my cold germs, so the midwife did the job.

All the kids were very excited about the birth, and about having a new sister.  Even two-year-old Faith was fine throughout the process, after being reminded that Mommy would be making funny noises but that she was all right.  She did put her hands over her ears now and then, however.  Noah especially was interested, showing much more curiosity than he had two and a half years ago when Faith was born.

According to the records, we had arrived at the birth center at 2:40 a.m.  Heather’s water broke at 2:44, and Joy was born at 2:45!

Everything else seemed to move quickly as well.  Joy was named much sooner than her siblings had been.  The necessary paperwork was done, and we were on our way.  Heather was feeling fine, and much prefers to recover at home.  We arrived as dawn was breaking, about 6:30 a.m.

The next day Baby Joy—affectionately known as “Baby Oy” by Noah and Faith—had her first visit with the pediatrician, who pronounced her a fine baby girl.  Life here is rather short on sleep, as you might imagine.  And I still have no voice.  But other than that, everyone is fine, happy, and very grateful!

Total times
Labor (hindsight guess):  slightly over 4 hours
Driving, 2 hours, 40 minutes
Birthing:  5 minutes

For more information, and a more intimate perspective, Heather's version of the events will soon be has now been posted on Daley Ponderings.

Baby Pool Results:  Except for the date, which as I said was nailed by a friend from church, Stephan is the clear winner in every category.  Not only did he come closest, but closest by far—and incredibly near the actual numbers.  He was only 1 hour and 45 minutes off on the time, 2 ounces off on weight, and 1/4 inch off in length!

It's not generally considered the best treatment for a cold and severe laryngitis to play in the snow, but the sky was so blue and the sun so inviting and the snow so perfectly white and perfect for making snowballs and snow men that when the rest of the family went out to enjoy it I couldn't resist accompanying them.  I had planned merely to watch, but as I said, the snow was perfect.

At least I never had a chance to get cold; the grandsons saw to that.  We made a lovely snowman with a carrot nose, and then engaged in a wild battle.  I don't know what the effort did for my cold, but the experience was exhilarating.  We Florida girls don't get much opportunity for that kind of fun.

And my voice is no worse, not that it can get much further gone than completely.  I'm learning a lot about how much I chatter when given the opportunity.  :(

Faith's two older brothers are off helping Daddy work on the car, so she had luxury of playing with Dad-o's gift all by herself.  The three wine corks will no doubt eventually become part of some craft project, but for now they are building blocks.  She carefully set down her baby doll—lovingly wrapped in a warm purple blanket—and made a tower, standing the corks all on end (no problems with this two-year-old's coordination).  Then she piled them like a woodpile (her family heats with wood), then stood them side by side to make a fence.  Next she laid them down, like sleeping people.  Then end-to-end to make a snake.  Finally, she arranged the corks in an L-shape.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Dat mine dun (gun).  Mine OWN dun!"

What shopping at your standard grocery store, with its standardized food, won't tell you:

The fruit on the left is a lemon, and on the right is a grapefruit.  All natural, from local (Central Florida) trees, healthy (as well as healthful), and absolutely delicious!

I should have put something recognizable in the picture for sizing; the grapefruit is about the size of a baseball.