Wednesday, 01 September 2010

Tonight, for the first time in over six years, there will be five people sleeping in my home. The last time this happened (in July 2004), we had a family of three visiting us from Deutschland. This time, our visitor is only one person, but since we are up to four people in our immediate family, it doesn’t take much to bring the tally up to five.

Our fifth (temporary) resident is my mom, on loan from the Centennial State. I’m glad she was able to come here and visit so soon after Isla’s birth, especially as I’m not back at work yet. Her arrival means that Isla has now met all of her grandparents – something I didn’t think would happen for many, many months.

I went to pick my mom up at the airport today, a task I handled with my usual aplomb persona. Just kidding. Actually, the craziness of the streets at the airport, coupled with being on my phone, my son talking to me from the back seat, and turning down the radio, all conspired to ensure I missed the sign that said “Speed Limit 15,” a little thing the policewoman was more than happy to point out to me.

Getting pulled over by the cops is on my long list of things I get unduly nervous about. Actually, another item high on that list is airplanes. And another item on that list is getting lost while driving. So…maybe I’m not the best choice to pick people up from the airport.

Really, though, you can’t get lost at the St. Paul/Minneapolis airport, because there are only two routes you can take: one takes you to an upper level where you get rid of people, another route takes you to a lower level where you welcome them back. For some reason, I always panic and mix these two up. Thankfully, the airport has helpfully provided a road that serves no purpose other than to take you out about 1/2 a mile, turn you around, and let you have another go at it. When my German friends came for a visit, I  managed to take the correct route but, alas, they weren’t standing there waiting for me. Since there’s no place to park, and since you can’t stop (!), you are forced to circle around again, something I had to do 9 times that day. And even when you do successfully meet up with your visitors, you can’t leave your car. And to the cops, “leaving your car” means not sitting in the driver’s seat, something my mom once discovered when she got out to help my dad load his luggage into the trunk. They’re divorced now.

Yeah, so, anyways, if you have to go to the airport to pick up someone: stay on the lower level, drive super slow, keep circling around until you see them, and then don’t get out of the car to greet or help them.

Thursday, 02 September 2010

This evening, Jennifer and I happened to be in that part of St. Paul where she grew up, so we did the obligatory drive-past-the-memories routine. We drove past her old Kingdom Hall, her old neighborhood, and even her old house. We also stopped by Creamy Cone, a tiny little eating establishment about four blocks from where Jennifer grew up. Even though I spent two years driving past that tiny place back when I was courting my bride-to-be, and even though I lived just a couple of miles away for a few months, I don’t think I’d ever stopped there before.

We parked, walked up to the counter (that’s all there is – a counter – there’s no indoor dining) and each ordered a flurry. Then we sat at one of the benches enjoying our desserts and (in Isla’s case) breast milk.

While sitting there, a van pulled up, two women got out, and they began trying to roll up the driver’s side window. It wasn’t working, so the began physically pulling on the window to make it go up. One of the women looked at me and said: “Can you help us?” I probably should’ve offered my services sooner, but I’m more the type of person who stares, slack-jawed, at other people’s problems rather than offering any tangible help. So I walked over and, using these hefty pipes I call ‘biceps’, managed to get the window up in no time. One of the women asked she owed me any money (I said no), and the other women gave me a high-five and said “Praise the Lord!” I don’t know why she thought my name was Lord but, no matter.

Anyway, if you ever find yourself on Dale Street in the North End of St. Paul, stop at Creamy Cone. It’s a good thing.

Tuesday, 31 August 2010

Don’t bother going to the Bakken Museum. I took Owen there two years ago, and after about a 1/2 hour, we’d seen and done all there was to see and do. Worse, the Bakken is like the electricity portion of the Science Museum…only with nothing else to offer. Many of the rooms are totally empty, and the employees, unlike the helpful, zealous staff of most museums, just walk around going from one off-limits room to another, busy with seemlingly non-Museum-related affairs. This makes me feel like I’m walking around where I shouldn’t be – as if I’m interrupting something important they have going on.

A few weeks ago, Owen asked if I was going to take him there while on my paternity leave. I was surprised he wanted to go again…but today I met his request and even brought along his cousin (not the three-week old one). Trust me, these photos are cheaper, more convenient, and more entertaining than the museum itself:

Owen and his cousin Lyric use magnets to mess with the colors on a TV. Wow.

I’m pretty sure this was the one reason why Owen wanted to visit the Bakken again: it’s a magnetic crane that picks up nuts and bolts. Notice Lyric waiting patiently to have a turn. Keep waiting Lyric, keep waiting.

Check it out – I’ve attached brain scanners to two children.

This is the only new thing (of ay note) that the museum has acquired in the past two years. Each player straps a band with electrodes onto their heads, and then tries to keep their mind calm. If you can calm your mind more than the other person, then the metal ball (you can barely see it right in the center there) rolls toward your opponent. For a while, the ball rolled back and forth, but Owen was the ultimate winner. It was obvious his cousin got bored, as she began looking around at other things and talking to me while Owen just stared at the ball like a stoic robot.

Lyric stands inside a (defunct) fireplace for no discernible reason, because that’s the sort of thing that Lyric does.

Owen spins a wheel that generates static electricity, which in turn causes small bits of paper to ‘mysteriously’ rise from the table. Lyric (her hands are just visible) tries to ring some gratingly loud bells with a magnet.

There was a flower garden outside the museum, ’cause nothing says “Electricity” like a flower museum. I told them to smile, and Lyric initiated this spontaneous embrace. Aww…how adorable.

Monday, 30 August 2010

I’ve gotta take my hat off to the front-desk lady in the radiology department of Children’s Hospital today.

The four of us woke up early (well, early for us) and got ready, got in the car, and drove into downtown St. Paul this morning. I’m not a fan (= I hate it) of driving in either downtown, so I’m already mad at whatever is going to happen before it even happens. Then we drove around a few blocks looking for the correct parking ramp. Have I mentioned before that Owen is terrified of parking ramps? Yeah, well, he is, so that certainly doesn’t make matters better.

Then we walk into the hospital. You know: those cesspools of bacteria staffed with people who were trained to think the human body is a disease needing saving from itself? Oh, and also, my wife hates going into hospitals. More than the usual person. I think it has something to do with the dumbfucks at HCMC, but I’m not getting into that right now.

Anyway, we check in at this desk, where they give us badges that say “visitor” and this man escorts us to the radiology department. Actually, as long as I’m handing out accolades, let me go ahead and say that it sure is nice that this hospital has people on hand to escort you through their labyrinth of hallways. That sure would’ve been nice at HCMC, but I guess they’ve got their hands full violating patients’ rights.

So then we get to the radiology department. They put a tag on Isla’s ankle (with her name, incorrectly spelled, printed on it), and then we sit down and wait. While waiting, a sick little girl came in, carried in her mom’s arms, while a nurse pushed an IV alongside that was attached to the girl. The girl is taken into a room, where some procedure is performed that makes her scream like she’s being assaulted. I kind of wish someone would’ve closed the door. That sure would’ve helped to not trigger any issues my wife or son may have had.

About ten minutes later, a nurse (or maybe she was a doctor, I don’t know) came over to my wife and asked her a few questions. Basically, here was the problem: she could take Isla into the room now and perform the high-radiation test on her, but it would be smarted to perform the low-radiation test first. The reason being, if the low-radiation test turns up negative, then there’s no need to subject her to high-radiation test. That makes sense, and I appreciate that the nurse/doctor had the good sense to point this out to us. But! (You knew a ‘but’ was coming, didn’t you?) They couldn’t get Isla in to do the low-radiation test until 11:30.

Hm…decisions, decisions. We had a midwives appoint scheduled for 11:00, so that was one conflict. I also thought that spending another two hours in the waiting room – besides racking up my parking fee – would probably also drive my wife and son insane. The nurse/doctor said we could come back at 3:00, but I didn’t think that was a good idea, either, as it takes my wife some time to mentally prepare herself to enter a hospital, and twice in one day seemed too much. So I asked if we could come back another day.

For some reason, the nurse/doctor couldn’t set that up, but instead told me to call a number. (That’s weird – whatever happened to appointment books?) So we went up to the front desk to get the phone number. So then this other woman hands us the phone number, and I say: “Are you gonna pay for our parking since you guys screwed up?”

Yes, yes, I know that I was being a bit rude, and a bit sarcastic, but I had every reason to believe the woman would not grant my request. For one thing, she works at a hospital, which means that even if she personally wanted to grant my request, she would first have to fill out forms A-114 and B-45 in triplicate, submit them to the board of directors, take a urine sample, have me wait in this dinky little room with a creepy skeleton, and then stamp “DENIED” on my forehead…by which time my parking fee would be even higher. For another thing, there was a sign on the counter that read: “No, we DO NOT validate parking.” So, I guess they’ve been asked that question before.

But guess what? The woman responded with: “Absolutely,” which she said in the most pleasant voice, as if I had just asked her if she wanted to go on an all-expense paid Caribbean cruise. She leaned over and grabbed two stickers and, as she handed them to me, she said: “Oh, but it wasn’t us who screwed up, we were just doing what the doctors scheduled your daughter for.” Ha! Brilliant! She deftly defused any further anger by passing the buck (usually I hate buck-passing, but sometimes it IS warranted, and I think the woman was correct in this instance).

But wait, there’s more, she further says to me: “Here’s one sticker for you for today, and here’s one for when you come back.” Score! So not only did I not have to pay $4 today, I won’t have to pay $8 (or whatever) when Isla and I return.

Bravo, radiology front-desk lady. Bravo.

Saturday, 28 August 2010

This morning, Owen and I ventured over to Battle Creek Regional Park (which straddles St. Paul and Maplewood) to do some cave exploring with the Happy Trails Nature Club.

While waiting around for the hike to begin, I bumped into one of the instructors from the birthing class Jennifer and I had attended earlier in the summer. Huh. What a coincidence. Or is it…?

Then later, while Owen was playing with some other kids in a small creek, Jodi, the Happy Trails organizer came over to me and asked what was new in my life. So I told her about my new daughter, and this attracted the attention of a few other parents who congratulated me. Jodi asked how Owen likes being a big brother, and I mentioned a few things and, in doing so, said something that indicated Isla was born at home. I just said it in passing, but immediately two moms began asking questions: who was the attending midwife? one of them asked, and she knew who I was talking about. Another mom began relating her home birth story, comparing notes, as it were.

Here’s my point (and I’ve taken heat for pointing this out before, but I stand by my observation): People who are attracted to certain kinds of activities can be counted on to be attracted to certain other – seemingly unrelated – kinds of activities. In this instance, it appears that people who feel it’s important to get their kids out exploring nature are the same people who are ‘into’ natural childbirth.

A similar observation was made by my wife some nine years ago: we were waiting in line to get into the brand-spanking new Apple Store (at the Mall of America), and the people standing in line around us were making all sorts of Star Trek and Simpsons references. Ergo: people who like Star Trek and the Simpsons generally prefer Macs to PCs. My wife even noted that, if we were not Witnesses, we could’ve been good friends with just about anyone in line that morning. And here’s the funny thing: we didn’t like being Witnesses, anyway (and besides, Witnesses are more likely to be found waiting in line for the grand opening of Burlington Coat Factory than Apple). I could go on, and I think I will:

People who like motorcycles also like to wear leather. People who like Wal-Mart also like spandex. People who like guns also like Sarah Palin. People who are assholes are also lawyers. People who like Mason Jennings’ music, also like pot. See? There’s no end.

Sunday, 29 August 2010

Today Owen and I paid another visit to the Twin Cities’ Model Railroad Museum (TCMRM). I say “another visit,” because he and I had first visited there two years ago, whilst Jennifer was on a trip (as in, ‘out of town,’ not as in, ‘acid’).

When we went two years ago, we showed up with a library pass to get in for free. Unfortunately, the TCMRM doesn’t participate in that program anymore. Oh – wait – maybe they do participate in that program, but only if you live in Isanti County. But I digress. So not only did we have to pay this time, but we had to pay a lot. Back in ’08, the cost was only $5 per person. Now it’s $6 and…more bad news…Owen, now that he’s five years old, costs full price. Oh well.

Actually, in the end, I didn’t mind paying $12, even though that was an infinite amount more than I paid last time, because now the museum is twice the size it used to be. The main building houses an amazing scale-model railroad system that features a detailed model of Minneapolis and St. Paul (including the flour mills, St. Anthony Falls, the Midway Yards and several other landmarks). The trains also pass through the city of Mattlin. It’s a cute little town…but, Mattlin? Is that even a city in Minnesota? I’ve never heard of it.

Another building houses several more model trains, including one that kids can operate and another one with loads of buttons to push. One button operates the roller coaster, another one operates the merry-go-round and another one – Owen’s favorite – operated a tiny model train inside a tiny model toy store. It was like a play within a play. I think it blew our minds. And we weren’t even on a trip!

So, yeah, bottom line: bring your kids to the TCMRM, preferably before they turn five. It’s located in St. Paul, at Bandana Square. Make sure you go on the weekends, ’cause that’s the only time they open up building #2.

This has been a public service announcement.

Wednesday, 25 August 2010

So, instead of writing about something that happened one day, I’m going to write about something I’ve been meaning to write about for several days, but haven’t had the opportunity. Besides, I think today is a fitting day to write about it…as you will see at the end of this post.

I finished reading the Laura Ingalls Wilder Little House set of books. There are nine books in the series, and I decided it was high time to finally read them once the school semester was over back in May. I began right away, and had finished the first two books before May had even completed. I just finished reading the last book (The First Four Years) on the 18^th of this month.

Simultaneously, Jennifer and I have been watching all the episodes of Little House on the Prairie, thanks to Netlfix. We started watching them in September of 2006, and, as of three days ago, just finished season 7 (of nine!).

Let’s compare and contrast the two, shall we?

First off all, there’s no comparing the first book (Little House in the Big Woods) with the TV show, as the show begins after the events of that book. It begins with the second book, which, appropriately, is titled Little House on the Prairie. Actually, the TV show’s pilot is a pretty close approximation of that book: acquiring and naming the horses, Mr. Edwards trek through the snow to bring Xmas gifts, meeting up with Indians, and eventually being kicked of the land courtesy of the US government. At the end of the pilot, the Ingalls family packs up and moves far, far away from that little house they’d built in Oklahoma Territory. This means, then, that the TV show’s title is kind of funny: the “little house” is not the ubiquitous homestead Pa built near Walnut Grove, but rather the one that we only see in the very first episode.

Book three (Farmer Boy) covers the life of Almonzo Wilder when he was a whipper-snapper. This, too, is not shown anywhere in the series.

In fact, it’s not until book four (On the Banks of Plum Creek) that the TV show begins to coincide with the books: Pa buys land and a sod house from Lars Hanson, Mary and Laura begin school in town, where they meet Ms. Beedle, Dr. Baker, and the Olesons. Nellie Oleson is there, and she’s too snobby for the other girls. Laura continually balks having to be a pretty girl, and instead wants to wear comfortable clothes and play ball with the boys. There’s even one chapter titled “Town Party, Country Party,” which, like the episode of the same name, depicts the snobby, boring party Nellie hosts and then the response party that Mary and Laura host.

In book five (By the Shores of Silver Lake), however, the Ingalls family is again on the move – this time to DeSmet, in Dakota Territory. And here the books and the TV show forever part ways. Silver Lake, and the next four books in the series, tell the story of the Ingalls family over the next eight years, but there’s only a passing resemblance to the show – which remains firmly planted in Walnut Grove: Mr. Edwards show up again, but only briefly. Almonzo and his brother Royal and sister Eliza Jane live in De Smet, too, where Eliza teaches school. Mary goes blind, baby Grace is born, Laura marries Almonzo, they have Rose…there are fires, snow storms that cover the first floor of the homes, crop failures, railroad adventures, and poor Jack dies…but apart from that, the TV show is pure fiction. There’s no such thing as Adam, Albert, Percival, Houston, Hester Sue, the Garveys or Mr. Edward’s wife and children.

Though all of the readings, I couldn’t help but wonder what the real Laura would make of the TV show. Granted, I don’t think less of the show because it doesn’t stay true to the books, but I just wonder…

At any rate: today would be the Wilders’ wedding anniversary. Happy 125th anniversary, Laura and Almonzo.

Thursday, 26 August 2010

I mentioned earlier that, when my Dad came for a visit in May, it was the first time in a long time that I’d seen him. Well, today I saw him again. This was pretty unexpected: he called on Monday and told me the Watchtower Society was paying for him, my stepmom, and another couple to fly up to Minnesota (and, if there’s one person the Watchtower Society owes a free trip to, it’s my Dad). Though he was going to be busy from Friday through Sunday, he said he wanted to make some time to see us on Thursday.

Well, his plane didn’t land until around 5:00, and he and my stepmom headed off to see my sister first, but, finally, in their typical whirlwind fashion, they arrived at our place at 8:30 in the evening.

We had a good time, really. They had gifts for Isla and Owen, and even a belated anniversary card and gift for us. Owen, who really wanted to show my dad his bedroom last time, finally got a chance to show him this evening. I’m not sure why, but Owen likes to invite everyone into his room. I guess once he gets you in there, he figures you’re gonna play with him. He’s usually right.

Friday, August 27, 2010

Lately, Owen’s been obsessed with really large numbers. I think it started several months ago, when he asked my wife, “Hey, do the numbers keep on going?” She said they did, and this absolutely blew his mind. He keeps trying to comprehend it; he’s asked me if maybe it’s possible that the numbers go in a circle and then come back around to zero. My first answer was a quick ‘no,’ but once I gave it some thought, I figured that since both positive and negative numbers proceed into infinity, then no one can really say what happens way out there on the numerical frontier.

Then, another day, he asked me what the biggest number was. I told him there is no biggest number. Then he asked me what’s the biggest number that I know of. “Well,” I said, “the biggest number with a name is googolplex.” He laughed at this absurd word, and then asked me to define it. So I did.

Ever since then, he’s been trying to find examples of googolplex in the everyday world. Today, he was especially obnoxious about it, and I finally had to flatly refuse to answer any large number-related questions.

The problem is…there really aren’t any real-world uses for googolplex. It’s just a fun (or frustrating, if you prefer) line of thinking to take. I mean, when Owen first found out about a million, he asked how long it would take to count to a million, and I was able to provide him a reasonable answer. I told him how many people live in Minnesota, and that gave him another way to think of a million. I did something similar with a billion, only this time I used the whole world as an example.

But then he kept asking how long it would take to count to a googol. “You’d never get there,” I said.

“What if you started counting when you were first born and you counted til you died.”

“Nope. You still wouldn’t get there. You wouldn’t even get close.”

“What if you started counting right when you first got into your mama’s tummy and—“

“No. You still couldn’t even get close.”

“But what if, when you were first born, you made a robot that counted super fast and the robot counted for your whole life, then would you get there?”

“No.”

One day, we were standing on the shore of the Mississippi River, and I picked up a handful of sand. “Look at all the pieces of sand in my hand,” I said. “How many do you think there are?”

He got all wide-eyed, and guessed that there were a googol.

“No,” I said. “There’s not a googol pieces of sand in my hand. Then I pointed out all the sand all the way up and down the river as far as we could see, and then on the far banks, too. “Do you see all that sand?” I asked him. “There’s not even a googol pieces of sand.”

Today, he continued with that questioning, and, while eating lunch, I said to him, “Owen, there’s just no real-world applications for googol, much less a googolplex.” Then I elaborated: “Remember all the sand in the world? Did you know that each piece of sand has trillions of atoms in it, and there are more stars in the universe than there are pieces of sand on the earth. And each of those stars are made up of more atoms than our planet. And do you know what? In all the universe, there are not even a googol atoms.”

That shut him up.

For about two minutes.