Thaw before reheating.
After numerous failed attempts to upload it in whole to Google video, Paul shrugged his shoulders, chopped it in half, and put it up on youtube. The second part overlaps a little with the first, I’m told.
Feedback is that it was a good interview. I’ve sort of tried to see it once, but I’ve learned something… the agony of listening to myself speak is nothing when compared to the gripping torture of having to WATCH myself WHILE I speak.
While we were in Central Pennsylvania for my cousin’s wedding, Will went fishing for the first time. On our first day there, my Uncle Corky brought him to a local creek (after their two-man fishing excursion, Will announced that, while the rest of us call him “Uncle Corky,” Will was going to call him “Uncle Cork”).
Then we all joined them for fishing the day after the wedding. Including my cousins Stephen and Katelin and my Aunt Roxanne. Will was without the family uniform (waders) so my Aunt and Uncle set up a special chair for Will to hold court for all the fishes that threw themselves to his mercy. (I think the final count on this was 6.)
They caught and released each one. When Will let this one go, it sort of floated along belly-up… whoops. Then, my Uncle did some magic trick holding the fish still in the running water of the stream bed and after a few seconds the previously doomed fish swam away, just fine.
Will actually caught a small mouth bass. (I can’t remember the other types of fish Uncle Corky and Stephen were quick to identify on Will’s hook… those guys seriously know their fish). They helped instruct Will on how to hold the rod, when the reel it in, and when to pull on the line. They were both incredibly good teachers and really let him do the work.
Will not only got skills in how to fish, but he quickly understood how to discuss the fish you catch. As shown in the picture below:
Then Stephen stepped in for some one-on-one with Will.
When Will decided that he was “inventing a new way of fishing” involving the net, Stephen went along like a true champ. He completely and totally earned his status as Will’s nomination for WORLD’S COOLEST GUY.
I think if you look really closely in these pictures, you can actually see Will’s little heart growing BIGGER and BIGGER.
Went back to a simple, pre-made theme due to some sort of nasty CSS hiccup which refuses to acknowledge set image sizes, orientation, and centering. I’m realizing that my expectations as a parent may be beyond my capacity. If I can’t get code to do what I want it to do, how can I expect it of my children?
I’m no great shakes with the ins and outs of the internets. Or maybe I’m just way too sober to understand it, ’cause this stuff is seriously messed up. Here I am, all dreamy about the world’s countries all getting along. Ha! We can’t even get web browsers to play nicely. And if a world of web geeks can’t get along, what chance does a world full of munitions and Sarah Palin supporters have?
I do intend to continue the renovation of the site into the monument of narcissim, therapy substitute, motherhood blogwhoring, documentation of lives and love I have envisioned. What else am I going to do in all my spare time?
It is very difficult to buy into the apathetically correct wisdom of the meaningless of the dissertation exercise. Specifically, this becomes difficult when I am confronted several times a week by people who actually, really, and truly care about it. People who thank me for talking to them. Comment on how I’m the first to have asked and how much better it feels to talk. Who act at first surprised that I want to know, then hesitant that I should listen, and finally rest on the relief of sharing.
A few weeks ago, I dragged my Schweitzer cohort out of the comfortable confines of our usual space within the Louisiana Public Health Institute. From the bright steel and chrome finishes of the modern downtown offices down a hard-to-find narrow road lined with modest World War II-era slab homes, to a damp and crowded trailer turned community center. The Harahan meeting place for a small Hispanic Church. There, several parishioners made us fantastic baleadas and coconut bread while we held our monthly meeting. I gave a short talk based on my prospectus defense about race, racism, acculturation, and the health of immigrants from Latin America. Then, our chefs joined the meeting and spoke about their lives. Although I’d planned the logistics of the meeting, I had no idea who would come or what they would say.
By happy accident, Paul and the kids were there and ended up providing some companionship for another child (daughter of one of the church members). Will taught her to play games on the Ipod, she supplied markers and Jesus coloring sheets. Kate played the faithful sidekick, thundering up and down the small hallway past our meeting space.
Since that meeting, where some of my peers cried and all expressed deep thanks and appreciation for my risk-taking in how I’d conducted the session, several fellows have written to tell me about the impact of the night. One specifically described how it had changed her interactions with patients in her current med school clinic assignment. Another said that my talk was one of the best she’d had in graduate school and made her re-think how she looks at health research. Other fellows have asked if I could bring members of the community to future events so that we can give larger voice to their experiences. Maybe linking theory to practice isn’t as elusive as it seems. Maybe it’s just a point of asking and listening?
And then there is this dissertation. The one that matters to no one. The one that is a means to an end, a task to be finished so that I can move on, hopefully, to more important things.
What a mess of information I’ve got! Transcripts are en-route, surveys from last weekend’s health fair sit boxed on my desk, and somewhere on my computer is the prospectus… that document I defended as my research plan, my approved manual for what I was going to do to finish this degree. Did I do what I intended to do? Did I answer my question? Honestly, I’m not sure. I think I’ve strayed from my original purpose. Perhaps because I keep getting distracted by what matters to someone.
Does a dissertation that matters to someone count? How esoteric must I be to contribute to knowledge? And whose knowledge, exactly, must be furthered for a dissertation to qualify as a quality document? I used to understand the situation and was comfortable with it. Now it makes me feel unsettled and unsure. Whom do I disappoint? My informants, the community I’ve worked so hard to be a part of, to show my support within? Or my committee, who doesn’t care?
We’re back from Boston and wicked exhausted.
Even without the kids, we still managed to make typical blunders and put Murphy’s Law to the test.  We had memorable moments without a camera on hand (like seeing a friend of mine from Junior High that I hadn’t seen in 20 years), were tripod-less in the moments when we really needed it, and had excellent weather only on the days we were stuck inside for the conference. But all that really didn’t matter because in the end, we really, Really, REALLY loved Boston. (Don’t even get us started on how much we loved the North End.)
Although we admit having a bit of 4-year moving itch (just try moving after 4-or-less years for your whole life and see what it does to you) we have no grand illusions about moving to Boston. I don’t remember the area much from our days in the late 70s Boston burbs, but my parents nostalgically relayed some of the key points for us. Like when I almost lost my thumb to the big, heavy, steel-interior front door. And The Fourth of July when they gathered wood for a fire to keep out the night’s chill. But if we had to spend some time for, say, a post-doc or something? We’d at least consider it, with excitement. The more likely scenario is that we’ll have to move up there since Massachusetts is the only State to offer Universal Health Care (something so tremendously important that it gets capitalized).
As is the case when we return from any foreign country, our re-intry into the Gret Stet of Looziana has been a bit rough. Tomorrow is coming hard and fast, filled with teaching English, Doctoral Seminar, late working lunch, and then swimming practice. My parents were extra awesome for helping with the kids AND leaving leftovers for dinner tomorrow. Seriously above and beyond the call of duty… especially when you consider they came here directly from the airport after spending a week in Vegas, having at least four car break-downs during the weekend (including one half way between here and Mobile), and with today being the first day of my Dad’s new super-CEO job. (Go, Dad!)
The “Greater New Orleans” interview airs tomorrow on WLAE channel 12 at 7 and 9:30 (and I think again at 2:30am?)Â I feel certain that Paul will pull it from TiVo and put it online to ensure maximum embarrassment on my part; my parents pay him well to keep me tortured in this regard.
The kids are a few weeks into their new school and Paul and I are finally getting adjusted. The kids figured things out pretty quickly, but us? We have new kids, new teachers, AND new parents to get to know with only a few minutes each day to sort it out. It’s a big step for us.
So last week, we attended the first parent-group meeting for the kids school. We got there early, so that Paul could hang huge curtains on the massive windows upstairs while I navigated the waters of a strange new parent group below. A few minutes into the meeting, the 10 foot ladder that Paul was on the Very Top Of collapsed on it’s bottom rung. Consider first, the danger: the damage of a 10 foot fall, coupled with the collapse of a huge metal ladder, and school tables and shelving lining the floor beneath.  Then picture the amazing response: a teacher happened to walk by the room at the very instant the ladder buckled, bearing shocking witness to Paul RIDING THE LADDER TO THE GROUND AS IT COLLAPSED UNDER HIM. Yep. He walked away just fine. I’m placing a bet that Paul’s next job is with Cirque di Soleil.
Despite Paul’s near-death experience at our first official school volunteerism event, we are now officially volunteers with committees and such. We have met a lot of very nice, down to earth, unpretentious parents… and a few who have given us well-intended lectures about the importance of parental involvement in school, how rewarding it is, and how we really should find a way to get involved. It gives us a good laugh.
Will is picking up French like a sponge, randomly throwing out French words in conversation. The best is the word “bleu” pronounced by Will as “BLEGH” and taking the place of where he would normally say the word “blue”. Like, for example, “Mommy, when I wear my Superman sunglasses, they make everything look BLEGH.” Kate’s French comes from repeating whatever Will says. This means that the most commonly heard phrase in the house is “BLEGH.”
What is most definitely NOT BLEGH is the school hot lunch program. We signed up both kids for a song, considering that now I know that school hot lunch is The Most Amazing Thing in the World, and that I would rip my kidney out with a spoon, eat ramen for a year, and even say something nice about Sarah Palin if it meant keeping my kids in the program. And it’s not just that I no longer have to worry about going to the store for lunch supplies, or packing lunches, or making sure containers are clean, or juice is made, or freezer packs are frozen… I also don’t have to stress over whether or not they eat dinner. I know that they are getting a good lunch at school (or, at least, I make myself believe this by dutifully ignoring the school lunch menu) and therefore, have officially stopped having to panic over whether or not dinner is something they choose to eat. Or, more aptly put, my desire to stuff food down those ungrateful whiny throats encourage them to eat is greatly diminished.
This Thursday, while Paul and I board a direct flight to Boston, Will is going on a field trip to the New Orleans Museum of Art. I’ve made it a point to be at every school event before, and I am pretty disappointed to miss the trip — where Will is going on his first ever school bus (not counting the school buses he rode as an infant in Honduras) and his first ever Art Museum. But once Paul and I are on that quiet airplane, deciding whether or not to read novels, gaze into each other’s eyes, take in a few moments of restful sleep, or basque in the comfort of hearing someone else’s kid howl through the flight… I don’t think I’ll be as bothered by it.
Will is on a roll, yammering on and on in the backseat about swimming in the “Nindianic Ocean,” (I’m told it’s in the Arctic), which is filled with whales that eat all people (“both boys AND girls”), has dangerous seals that bite, and also(!) many, MANY penguins.
Kate tries to periodically chime in with key words, but even she is forced silent in the face of Will’s unending monologue.
I turn to Paul with a glance of surrender. There is no other choice but to let the words pour from the boy while we sit defenseless. Meanwhile, Will has begun to run a new tangent about “injas” who live in the country of “Chinese”. In case you were wondering, they were trained by knights in the 1870s. I stifle a laugh and sigh.
Me: “And here we are, without the voice recorder, unable to capture all of this.”
Paul: “It wouldn’t help. Our son is Quantum Mechanical.”
M: “Quantum Mechanical? How is one Quantum Mechanical, exactly?”
P: “He runs by the rules of Quantum Mechanics.”
M: (not following) “He’s a cat in a box?”
P: “Meaning that you can only know his velocity or his position.”
M: “So, we could record his position…”
P: “But would then loose the ability to see where he is going.”
M: “In other words…”
P: “It is impossible to understand what he is currently going on about and see where it is going at the same time.”
M: “Yup. That pretty much sums it up.”
Then, I think, I said something about the total hotness of a science geek. Because nothing speaks to a woman like knowledge of quantam mechanics.
Trying to grasp the scope of the bailout? Here it is, plain and simple. There’s even a black and white if you want it clarified on that level.
With a hat tip to Liprap, who made my day by posting this.
