Future Daughter's School Clothes

Behind the scenes

so casual, yet so awkward

the favourite time of day for my parents to confront me about my personal life is after dinner, when we're washing the dishes (i.e. when no one else is around and when i cannot escape).

their latest salvo has moved beyond the usual, 'where does [so-and-so] go to school and what does she do?'; or the simple, 'do you have a girlfriend yet?'

now my mom just says, 'herman, your girlfriend must be very domestic, because you totally cannot take care of yourself and it would be very reassuring for me'; 'you know, nowadays it's pretty common for guys to date older women. one or two years older is pretty reasonable' (paraphrased from the cantonese). if i combine together everything she's said on the subject in the past three years, it'd make a decent wish-list.

it also sounds like my dad is the one spreading rumours about who i'm dating. he likes to observe and guess as much as i do. as i said before, with their powers combined, they're pretty accurate most of the time.

they are, by no means, pushy or gossipy people; i think they just want me to be more candid about my feelings because i generally tell them nothing of consequence. i do plan to start once there is something to tell.

it doesn't matter what you throw into the pond;there will still be ripples

i've been meaning to write about this topic, but haven't been able to articulate myself to any degree of satisfaction. this is because it is part of a larger socio-psychological theory that i am currently trying to synthesize that requires a bit of background with the kinetic-molecular theory, the wave-particle theory, the resonance phenomenon, Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle and Vygotsky's theory of social transmission. at the moment, i do not have time to elaborate enough on all of them in any cohesive manner, and as such, you all remain woefully deprived of my brain-barf (in writing at least; i can probably speak about it).

today, however, i was shown the following video, which touches on what i wanted to say more succinctly and powerfully.



basically i've been noticing that we often make decisions for ourselves without really considering what affect it might have on those around us. my generation has been brought up not to worry about what others think of us (individually), but this only applies in the context of preserving self-esteem in the face of bullying. to extend this idealogy to all facets of life would be a mistake.

each and every person (that reads this blog at least) has someone in his or her life that respects him or her; that is to say that you all have an influence over someone or many someones. influence is a responsibility. so when you decide to do a big something, you have to remember that someone is watching what you do, without the benefit of knowing why you are doing it. this doesn't only apply to physical 'seeing'; your online actions, as well as your actions transmitted through hearsay, are also equally scrutinized. this is not to say that the Pharisees had the right idea about acting holier than thou art; their problem was that of hypocrisy -- it was all only an act.

though it is just a throwaway line that has become a catchphrase for a tertiary character in a long-running cartoon,

"Won't somebody please think of the children?" - Mrs. Lovejoy

still rings of truth.

Maybe Tomorrow

it's been awhile since something i've watched made me tear up (i think it was a rerun of the Littlest Hobo back in the early 90s). today, i wasn't the only one.

today's sermon was about asking (Matthew 7:7-11). this video was shown to illustrate the point.

the story of Rick and Dick Hoyt is about 8 different pieces of amazing.

the quadriplegic son asked his dad one day to enter into a 5 mile marathon to raise funds for other disabled people. the dad ran it, pushing his son along the entire way. Rick said that when his dad pushed his wheelchair, he didn't feel handicapped anymore. Dick resolved to chase that feeling for his son, and together they've run 942 events (including 25 Boston Marathons).

Day 21 at St. Florence: "What are you still doing here?"

at long last: lunchtime talk turned to pregnancies.

we went through 8 cm dilations, not-false pregnancies, icky-placental guck, 34-36 wk births (4 pounders that fit in the palm of your hand), hospital policy, sleepless husbands (troopers!) and this story:

"when my mom's water broke for her fourth child, my dad said he was hungry and asked her to make a sandwich. she made it and he ate it. when they got to the hospital, the nurses asked, 'what took so long?'"

until kindergarten teacher asked, "Herman, what are you still doing here?"

it was late into the lunch hour and the only people left in the staff room were mothers, soon to be mothers and one male volunteer doing his elementary school teaching placement.

i shrugged. "gotta be prepared for this some time, right?"

kindergarten teacher: aren't you grossed out?

me: [shrugs again]

kindergarten teacher: that's your reaction to everything! i love Herman; [to the principal] can we keep him?

principal: yes, we should! can you come to our play date on June 25th? we're having games and hot dogs!

grade 5 teacher: and you can help set up...

principal: oh, and you can come to the bowling trip. [to grade 5 teacher] there, now you have one adult volunteer. you'll just need two more.

me: i'll come whenever i'm needed.

grade 5 teacher: oh, just come from June 2nd to the 27th...

by the end of the day, i had been suckered into spending at least half of June volunteering at St. Florence, which is great since i have steadfastedly refused to look for a summer job, even though this is the big year that i really need to.

Day 4 at St. Florence: Whispers

i went to fetch some students today who were perennially in the bathroom. they love washing their hands, i guess. anyway, as i neared the washroom, some older kids were hassling one of the students in my class at the water fountain; they were at least twice his size, pushing around a kid half my size. i gave them a stern, "hey, what's going on?" and they gave me an equally stern, "who the hell are you?" with their eyes and under their breaths. not one to pick fights with students i had never met yet, let alone any authority over, i shuffled off the maligned boy and went to the bathroom to find the other, calmly and casually. i went in, stopping just inside the door and called his name, but received no response. i waited a few more seconds before a gangly girl came out of a stall with a deer in the headlights look. what's a girl doing in the boys' bathroom? [beat] what am i doing in the girls' bathroom? calmly and casually, i walked back out and past the pushy big boys amidst guffaws, snickers, and whispers to the (real) boys' bathroom to await the student i had come to fetch. so if you hear any news of strange men in a Catholic school's girls' bathroom, that was me.

earlier in the day, before my wonderful adventure into awkward accident, i was setting out some wooden shapes on the desks of the students before class began. the music teacher (who tours other schools) came in to chat up the teacher i worked with. in whispers they discussed their opinion of me thus far as a teaching assistant. i went about my business and pretended not to hear anything (other than the music in my head) but i caught "he's great with the kids."

i hear that a little bit more often than the incredulous "teaching?!" when asked what i plan on doing after school, as if they expected me to be doing something more sexy with my life. for that i am relieved, affirmed and encouraged. going into the program i had some trepidation about my ability to teach. i am not a natural teacher or public speaker; my skills and interests lean more towards knowledge seeker than lesson preacher. but moments like the one above (not the one above the above) remind me of why i wanted to teach in the first place. teaching is not my career choice; being the best husband and father i can be is the career i've chosen. teaching just so happens to facilitate my career choice. though the earnings are modest, they are pretty much guaranteed coming out of school. the hours are regular (almost to a fault) and every summer i will have lots of time to spend with my (future) kids. i will be going into family building preloaded with mountains of experience raising children. in the voices and laughter of the kids i work with now, i hear whispers of the little ones i will one day raise.

Day 2 at St. Florence: Confidences

it's pretty amazing how quickly people open up to near-strangers when you just put in a little bit of time.

walking through the (tiny) halls i bumped into the French teacher and we almost didn't stop to chat. it looked like we were both about 50/50 in terms of wanting to stop to chat or not and looked to the other for body language hints to see which way the other was leaning. it was awkward for all of three seconds before we both decided to turn back to be introduced properly. turns out he used to teach High School Math back in his home country, Haiti, but is now stuck doing French for elementary. he is fairly miserable because most elementary students don't enjoy learning another language on top of struggling through English; he probably feels underpaid and under-appreciated. but it seems most of the kids really like him. he showed up at the door once and three kids leapt out of their seats -- one from the back of the room -- to hug him. it was sweet; they got in (minor) trouble.

i spent a good chunk of the morning coaxing one boy to copy out one sentence. in that time i found out he likes Spider-Man and French, occasionally tries to write with his left hand and returns everything he borrows immediately after he finishes using it. he has a lot of trouble with reading, writing and academics in general. for a grade 1 student, this entails mostly reading, writing and comprehension thereof. motivation is a problem too; he either drifts off into space or is easily distracted by what others say, latching onto that train of thought, forgetting his original focus (copying out that sentence).

the teachers know him very well. most of them lunch in the staff room. much of the conversation centres on the 'problem-child of the day' and carries on from there. i'm not one to gripe about kids -- i'll tell funny stories for sure, but purely for laughs -- but i see how this is a necessary thing for teachers. it allows them to unwind a bit when the infuriation sets in, and discuss with other teachers about possible solutions or tactics that may have worked in the past. parents, in general, figure prominently in these discussions. the teachers have personal relationships with these parents; they are considered extensions of the kids they teach and they make it a point to get to know the parents to get to know the kids better. unfortunately, many of the cases in this school are instances of "children raising children" in incomplete families. i listen in on scraps of conversation (as usual) to find out more about the kids i interact with to try and communicate with them more personally.

when i found out the boy liked French, i suggested that he tell his teacher once in awhile. i hope he remembers to. i'll have to bug him about it.

innocuous

once in awhile my parents will ask me a random question about a girl. i'll be washing dishes when my dad asks something like, "how old is [la-la-la]?" or "what program is [la-la-la] in?" i think they are trying to hint, in a roundabout fashion, at something.

back in high school, i wrote an essay on prearranged marriages (funny how in television/movie/book prearranged marriages, the guy is usually really keen on this and it's the bride-to-be that runs for the hills with the man she truly loves/higher paid actor) and my conclusion was along the lines of "i would be in favour of a prearranged marriage if my parents picked the person that i would have picked." how clever was i back then, eh? i referenced Apu's and Simba and Nala's prearranged marriages and i was advised to stick to the text.

it is in moments like the i'm-pretending-to-not-be-interested questions that i long to become a parent myself. not because i will have opportunity to meddle in someone's life, but because i can then exercise the art of innocuous attention. this is a character trait that i am consciously trying to develop. it is attending and loving someone without him or her really being aware of it. most children do not realize how much their parents do for them, or have done for them, until much later in life when they become parents themselves. where worldly acts of kindness happen because of the possibility of gratitude, i consider a sign of gratitude as a failure for the innocuous attender in subtlety. sure, a word of thanks is nice, but it is so much better knowing that the affected is oblivious.

i went for a walk with a girl once, just around the school, because i wanted to tell her that i liked her but was stalling to formulate thoughts. a truck was heading towards us along the lane to our right while we were on the sidewalk and i saw that we would 'intersect' right at a puddle. as casually as i could, i slipped to her other side in between her and the truck so that i absorbed the ankle-high splash. in hindsight, i probably could have just slowed down and the splash would have fallen ahead of us, but that's not quite as cool.

my parents are very good being innocuously attentive (or i am woefully dense). even though i haven't said anything about it, they seem to be pointing me in a direction that i already intend to go. i don't think they are spying on me. they just know me. of course, they could just be very good at pointing out the glaringly obvious. my mom always tells me to get a drink when i've already pulled out a cup and started pouring.

pocketfish parenting - 1: the potty

i'm quite sure my readership is not at the parenting stage (yet/anytime soon) but it doesn't hurt to prepare. presenting, on a bit of a lark, pocketfish parenting: ideas i have or encounter that i will try to remember for the future.

Parent Hacks posted something on using Ping-Pong balls as a potty training prop back in october and i thought i'd share.

of course, commentors were quick to point out that ping-pong balls are not as fun to fish out once they've been doused. the physics major (that is still) in me would also like to point out the splash factor involved with spraying a spherical object. mess minimization is key, so really, ping-pong ball sits in the half-good idea pile.

my top three props:

1. ice cube: floats and melts, and if you suck and hit the hole, it will splash back. fun for the whole family.
2. paper "boat": tap into those innate violent male predilections for destruction and tell your boy to sink that battle ship.
3. cheerios: the one with the hole that doesn't splash back. flushable, and feeds the goldfish in the sewers.

i don't remember ever getting such things to play with as a kid but i will definitely go play now.

good thing i didn't ask her when the baby was due...

how to be a better husband

it appears that Amy Sutherland's New York Times article, "What Shamu Taught Me About A Happy Marriage," has caused quite a stir. it's a short and pleasant read, but i'll summarize.

as is often the case in marriages, Sutherland sought to change her husband because she found herself nitpicking and becoming annoyed at all his little habits (leaving clothes on the floor, getting angry over lost keys) - none of which warrants divorce by any stretch of the imagination, but do accumulate and fester in the mind. she tried the usual approaches (counseling, nagging) to no avail (the marriage counselor actually commended their communication skills). while researching exotic animal trainers for a book, she was inspired to utilize the same training and conditioning skills on her husband.

taking sides
depending on your gender, personality and life stage, you'll probably have different reactions to this article. as an amateur behaviouralist and an aficionado of couples' rapport in particular, Sutherland's cheeky writing tickled me. my first thought was, "hey, is this ethical?" i guess it is as ethical as training a baboon to skateboard, making it an argument for someone who cares about that sort of debate.

in any case, i agree with this method. it is certainly something that i have been considering (as a parenting technique - not that i have children) for quite some time before reading this. nagging only works by annoying the naggee to the point of relenting in that hopes that the nagger will shut up. negative reinforcement short of physical damage merely serves to push our rebellion buttons.

if it is not broken ain't broke...
though it is a stereotypical prejudice to say that women always try to change/customize their men, i believe it is pretty safe to say that this stereotype is grounded in truth. where men enjoy fixing and tinkering with objects (machines and anything else that could probably be broken with further fixing), women tend to enjoy fixing people, particularly significant others. i would say this behaviour stems from playing with dolls (that give little girls the feeling of complete control over the 'lives' of their friends), but it probably extends back far beyond the advent of Barbie. why else would women go for the "bad boy" even when there is a perfectly good housetrained gentleman available? this is not a bad thing. otherwise guys (in general) would never be able to get a girl to go out with them. here's a great pick-up line: "i have emotional baggage and your voice is a soothing balm to my ravaged soul, so will you bear my children?". i refer you to the remarkable number of wounded soldiers who end up marrying their nurses, but i digress.

the techniques mentioned are nothing new - positive reinforcement has been around since Pavlov rang his bell - and they work like magic. that is to say, lots of hard work practicing and perfecting without any guarantee that it will pan out. it's sort of like... marriage. well, fancy that coinky-dink. therefore, we can conclude that marriage is the magic of classical conditioning! right?

math
seeing as how i am unmarried, all i can do is speculate (and research anecdotally!) from a logical and Christian standpoint. and i have found that marriage is supremely difficult because it requires you to be completely selfish. you heard me.

but wait, aren't we supposed to be selfless and altruistic and whatnot?
this goes completely against our natural inclinations of self-serving, of ensuring that our own interests are paramount. should we go against our design? after all, it is far easier to put the spoon in your own mouth than someone else's. what people tend to forget is that marriage combines two individuals into one entity: "for this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two will become one flesh" (Ephesians 5:31). a married couple should come to know each other so well that feeding each other becomes easier than feeding themselves.

so does trying to classically condition her husband to pick up his socks make the article's author the manipulative, man-eating, Beast-riding, she-devil of Babylon?

i see this more as a reasonable and positive approach to building each other up to become better partners. as you can see, i sort of ran out of energy towards the end of this entry. i was also a bit snarky in the middle because i'm not alright.

i have made a startling breakthrough in social science

everyone loves boobs funbags.

babies are always looking for them.
they're the first thing you notice if you're 4'6".
non-gay guys like them: they are the only things middle/high school jerks consider.
girls are obsessed with them: how big they are, how directly related to self-esteem they are, how they look, how they (the funbags) look when they (the girls) lean over, how much more of a raise (ha) they can garner, etc.

and we all know, by television or film or experience, people like to touch them. a lot. but what has hitherto been unexplored (for many, many reasons) is the fact that people would touch them all the time if they weren't barred by social restraints (ah, Freud).

case in point: stuffing your shirt. this is meant for guys to try because a) girls have real ones, and b) you can't touch real ones without real problems arising. also, no girl is immature enough to actually do this sort of thing.
in this sociology experiment, go stuff your shirt to the approximate shape of a female torso. it doesn't have to be done well and it doesn't have to be even. it merely has to be apparent that your shirt is stuffed to appear boob-like.

now when your friends come up to you and ask you what the peanutbutterandjelly you are doing, they will not ask verbally. nay, fair maiden, they will not even be able to speak through fits of giggles (guys and girls alike because really fake boobs are universally humourous). in fact, the first thing they will do is touch you to confirm that they are fake (guys and girls alike because everyone loves to touch boobs, fake or otherwise). they will grope and fondle and tweak and squeeze, and even bat at your stuffed shirt. some wellminded friends will cup your stuffing into better shape. really close girl friends with a sense of humour will measure you, and possibly lend you garments to augment your figure.

this is also a quick way to find out if someone likes you. the girl who likes you will ignore your boobs completely and only look into your eyes, no matter how enticing your chest may be. she will also tell you you are being a dork and immature and ask, "how will you ever become a good father to my babies if you act like this?"

my.

"my, what a strong grip you have."
"the better to ignore the pain of the Baby i'm trying to birth," she winced.
"you're doing just fine. just breathe."
"no, i think it'll be more comfortable if i just hold my breath."
"labour has made you sardonic."
"and all these people looking between my legs has made you jealous."

Of course her speech was punctuated with contractions and various huffings and puffings, and his was hushed and what he took to be soothing, but it would not do to transcribe it so. As far as birthing rooms go, this one was spartan. White dominated every angle, the lights yellow in comparison. Apparently it helps the mother-to-be focus her efforts, not that her vision isn't already blurred with tears and perspiration. speaking of which, he mopped her face with a sodden handkerchief.

"we have towels for that, sir," piped a Helpful Nurse.
"oh, it's all right. they'd probably be more useful for the mess on the floor."
she shrugged and continued her work arranging and rearranging the tools of her trade. the doctor, meanwhile, whispered coaxings to the unborn baby, urging him or her to come out and play.

"breach!"
"told you those towels would come in handy." she was too busy to reply.
"placenta. tugging time, boys and girls."
"darling, our Doctor seems to be a bit of a quack."
"keep pushing, baby. and you too, Baby."
through the pain, she beamed at him. he gave her a quick kiss before moving over for a better view. with the placenta now dangling uncomfortably, cradled by Helpful Nurse's outstretched gloved hand, he found good reason to go back to the kissing.

"the Baby should be coming out feet first now. what say you, Ultrasonic Nurse?"
Ultrasonic Nurse nodded her agreement and continued focusing the sounding pad. the Doctor's view of the screen was plenty clear.

Ominous beeping pierced the cheerful labour banter.
"Doc, we've lost the pulse!"
"now is not a good time!"
"we should induce."
"she's too close for it to have any effect. it's up to her."

tuning it all out, he prayed for deliverance and delivery.

- - -

it was raining. pathetic fallacy, he mused, the very heavens weep for us. turning back to the clipboard in hand he filled out the necessary paperwork, the bills, the request for the body. the family and friends had all, thankfully, been ushered out politely by the ward's nurses. there was only so much condolance one could take.

he trudged back to her room and crawled under the covers. she was awake. tears sprung anew, but out of courtesy they sobbed quietly to each other until exhaustion overtook their grief and whisked them off to sleep. but not before he wiped her nose.

- - -

sleep was but temporary escape, though still preferable to being awake, which was a rather rotten feeling. the sun shone brightly, daring us to be happy. fat chance, Gas Ball. as he rubbed the crust from his eyes he found his wife awake, ceiling-gazing, quite possibly counting the holes in the tiles.

"12 403."
"i got 12 437. good morning." she continued to stare at the ceiling.
"its not your fault."
"i know."
"want to get out of here?"
"yeah."
"home?"
"not yet."

- - -

parking, they climbed on top of the hood, side by side, just like the good old days.

"just like the good old days." he echoed his thoughts. her only response was to curl up closer.

the leaves had just turned and were beginning to drop. the wind nipped but the heat of the engine warmed them from below. cirrus clouds wisped the secret messages of the winds in the sky as the sun warmed them from above. they were at a favourite Kodak Moment spot, a little parkette overlooking the valley and the opposite face. there the trees waved trichromatically, deciduous reds and olds, coniferous greens. it was there they had their first date. it was there he proposed. it was where they went to escape to think, to talk. it was where they went to celebrate the good stuff, and deal with the hard stuff.

"it was a boy."
"i suppose we ought to name him then. i don't think 'the Baby' really holds much water with kids these days."
"did you have something in mind?"
"not really. just whatever fit the moment."
"how about 'Not Fair'?" he pouted.
"you're pouting."
"a great male model was lost the day i picked up those books." that elicited a smirk, the first emotion she'd shown other than sorrow. they had met as he stooped to help her pick up her texts.
"not lost. just monopolized."
"selfish, selfish, selfish," he chided.
"is it selfish of me to want our Baby back?"
"no. we're allowed to covet God's possessions."
"it hurts."
"a lot. i love you."
"that helps."
he kissed her forehead and they spent the rest of the morning in silence.

- - -

Shadows are falling, and I'm running out of breath
Keep me in your heart for a while
If I leave you it doesn't mean I love you any less
Keep me in your heart for a while
When you get up in the morning, and you see that crazy sun
Keep me in your heart for a while
There's a train leaving nightly, called when all is said and done
Keep me in your heart for a while
Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-lo
Keep me in your heat for a while
Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-lo
Keep me in your heart for a while

Sometimes when you're doing simple things around the house
Maybe you'll think of me and smile
You know I'm tied to you like the buttons on your blouse
Keep me in your heart for a while

Hold me in your thoughts
Take me to your dreams
Touch me as I fall into view
When the winter comes keep the fires lit
And I will be right next you

Engine drivers headed north to pleasant street
Keep me in your heart for a while
These wheels keep turning but they're running out of steam
Keep me in your heart for a while
Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-lo
Keep me in your heart for a while
Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-lo
Keep me in your heart for a while
Keep me in your heart for a while

Pardon my language, but I'm a happy camper!

"I want to have a baby."
"Excuse me?"
"I want to have a baby."
"Yeah, I heard the first time, but you're standing in front of the game."
She plopped down on the couch and threw her legs over the arm, leaning back against him, draping his arm about her shoulders like some dead animal.
"So what do you think?"
"They've got line one out, but we have last change, so we'll probably match the checking line against them."
"About the baby!"
"Oh, yeah. Sure. Knock yourself out."
She sighed, conceding defeat. So this is why the birth rate is so low - hockey before procreation. Perhaps I can ply him with food and drink? she thought. She eyed the chips all over the coffee table, floating, sogging in spilled cola. He looked well plied already.
"What are you thinking?"
"I already told you, I want a baby."
"Boy or girl?"
"Girl, of course."
He winced.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"No, tell me. What's wrong with girls?"
"Nothing, nothing at all. Girls are great for the first 9 years."
"Oh? Then what?"
"Uh... Then the estro- oh, hey, commercial's over."
She was starting to get annoyed. No, she should be fully annoyed by now. Can't fault him really, he is in the middle of a hockey game. But this is important! Clock's a tickin'. She didn't feel like a spring chicken anymore. Come to think of it, she never has.

---

"Sanderson is coming up the left wing now. Dumps it in deep. Vochenkov picks it up behind the net, centering pa-"
"I want to have a baby."
"Excuse me?" He gestured towards the television set, neck craning to see around her.
"-and the low slapper hits a leg in front-"
"I want to have a baby."
"Yeah, I heard the first time, but you're standing in front of the game."
"-puck's loose in the blue ice! Darington pounces on it for the whistle."
"So what do you think?"
"They've got line one out, but we have last change, so we'll probably match the checking line against them."
"About the baby!"
"Oh, yeah. Sure. Knock yourself out."
"Rolfsson wins the draw- there goes the whistle."
"Now, what a way to kill a scoring chance."
"Too many men on the ice."
"Sloppy line changes lead to foul ups."
"Yep, here they are, one - two - three - four - five - six, and the goalie is still in the net."
"You're watching Hockey Night in Canada on CBC."

"What are you thinking?"
"I already told you, I want a baby."
"Boy or girl?"
"Girl, of course."
He winced. Make-up - 10 o'clock curfew arguments - $300 prom dresses - boys - yikes. He remembered what it was like to be a boy. Boys are bad. Boys caused the dads of girls to worry. No thank you.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"No, tell me. What's wrong with girls?"
"Nothing, nothing at all. Girls are great for the first 9 years."
"Oh? Then what?"
"Uh... Then the estro- oh, hey, commercial's over." Phew. Note to self, honesty clearly not the best policy.
"Face off to the left of the goalie. Stevens wins the draw."
Boy, I hope she wants to try to make a baby tonight.