Mato Poop

I’ve been eating soup for lunch pretty frequently over the last couple of months, and I frequently share it with Lennie. (Plug: Progresso has some really quite yummy soups that also happen to be low-fat.) Today, I had a nice thick bowl of hearty tomato soup, and of course I shared with Lennie. It turns out that she doesn’t pronounce initial “s” sounds too well yet, and she tends to substitute a “p” sound. So when her bowl of soup started running low, she looked up at me and cooed “mato poop.” Another manifestation of this phenomenon appears when she talks about sleeping. We’ll tuck one of her dolls or her favorite stuffed animal (Jem Dog, a Boyd’s Build a Bear creation) into bed. She’ll catalog the necessary accoutrements — blanket, pillow — and then say “baby peep” or “doggy peeping.”

Her childcare impulses extend beyond the bedtime routine, though. I can’t even remember how or when it started, but at some point, it became a thing for her to sit on one of our knees when we read to her. She’d approach, turn around with her back facing us, and back slowly up until she was in a position to sit on one knee or the other to be read to, and plop down. Now it’s less of a step-by-step approach and more of a fluid motion. I usually wind up shifting her to the middle of my lap into the little nest that my crossed legs make because it’s easier to read that way. Anyway, at some point, she began to ask for books (besides saying “book, please”) by bringing a book over and saying “up on knee.” When she decides to read to her baby dolls, she’ll grab a book and a baby, sit down with the baby beside her, and say “up on knee,” trying her best to manage both a book and a baby in her lap. When she saw her cousin Kate recently, she chased her around and around with a book, all but shouting “up on knee.” (Which is only fair: When Kate was tiny upon their first or second meeting, Lennie tried to ride her like a pony; so a little sitting-upon reciprocity is in order whenever Kate’s ready to take her turn. To Lennie’s dismay, Kate was not ready for her turn during the recent visit.) When playing with Ella in the last couple of weeks, Lennie has also tried to entice her to sit on her knee and be read to, but the best that’s come of it so far has been the two of them reading “Brown Bear, Brown Bear” together.

Chasing Kate around and chanting “up on knee” is but one form of protest Lennie has engaged in of late. A couple of months ago, I made a passing reference to the fact that Mleeka’s got a mole Lennie likes to twiddle. (Since I’ve written about my bulba, I hope not to get into trouble for blogging about Mleeka’s mole.) Her love for that mole is a deep and complex thing. It’s a little weird, her obsession, but it’s also sweet. Rather than being comforted by ribbons sewn onto the edge of a well-worn blankie or by some other inanimate soft thing, she craves an outcropping of her very mother’s body. Tender as she feels about the mole, she’s downright militant about her rights to twiddle it. She’ll raise holy hell if denied, literally kicking and screaming (we predict that she’ll be of the plate-throwing ilk of fit-pitcher when she’s a little older). A couple of weeks ago, I was in the office, and I heard a faint chant coming from the bedroom. As I made my way through the house, the chant resolved into “Share mole! Share mole!” Ah, baby’s first protest. As good as she is with a crayon, it’ll be no time before she’s making signs and picketing.

An Abortion Manual

The other day, I posted a quick jab of a comment about the recent South Dakota legislation making it illegal for abortions to be performed in cases in which the mother’s life wasn’t in danger. I was angry because the thinking behind such a decision seems hypocritical and a little dim. The tradeoff in many cases is the physical, emotional, and mental health of a functioning and victimized woman for an unwanted potential life devoid of anything approaching the actual worth of the woman. To cry that it’s immoral to abort a fetus on the grounds that life is precious, even when saving that fetus contributes to the spoilage of another person’s life, just doesn’t compute. So I was mad, and I posted a quick bit about girls whose dads rape them and cause them to get pregnant.

That sort of blather isn’t really very useful, though. It’s just a vent for concerns and sympathies that even a couple of days later I can’t pretend to express eloquently. So to follow up, I’d like to point you to something that is useful. It also happens to be one of the scariest things I can remember ever having read.

A blogger named Molly has written the first in a series of tutorials on how to perform abortions. It can be done relatively inexpensively at home, and she explains how. Apparently, in the ’60s and ’70s, an organization called Jane provided abortions to the Chicago area, and it is in response to a likely need for a similar organization in South Dakota and probably elsewhere (including my state) in the coming years that Molly writes her tutorial.

When I first got the link to the blog, I thought it was going to be something satirical, an over-the-top description of what the world would be like for many women if abortions were outlawed. And at times it does read rather like such a story. But she’s in earnest. She’s providing a mostly detached and clinical, but straightforward, description of the procedure as performed in a non-medical environment. I’m picturing now a world in which poor women go to their friends’ houses to have kitchen-table abortions performed, and as surreal as that vision is to me, I can’t help thinking that for some, it’s not too far off. Here are some of the things that scare me about the tutorial:

There’s no way you can see into the uterus. From here on out — this is the scary part — you will have to operate on feel alone. Don’t feel too afraid. Each element in the uterus feels different from the others, and as long as you are careful and understand exactly what the procedure involves at each step, it will not be too difficult.

Save the material until the end of the procedure on a piece of plastic, so that you can be sure the entire fetus has been removed.

Scraping softly could leave tissue behind, and if there’s anything you don’t want, it’s that.

When you feel the curettage and removal is complete, make sure you examine the fetal material you have already extracted. If you’re missing anything obvious — for instance, a head — make sure to find and remove it.

Imagine for a moment that you have a daughter or a niece or a sister who’s been raped but who for whatever reason doesn’t have the means to get a medical abortion. Maybe she’s too poor to leave work for a week to travel out of state and get an abortion. Or maybe your niece’s parents are fundamentalist Christians who would force her to endure the pain and shame of bearing her rapist’s child even at the cost of her own well-being. And imagine further that, poor or controlled as she is, she’s resourceful after all and finds someone who will perform a kitchen-table abortion for her. And so there she lies, nervous and stripped of a family support network, the pressure cooker (to sterilize instruments) ticking behind her, with a friend or, worse, an anonymous home abortionist (perhaps a profiteer) scraping out her uterus like a Halloween pumpkin. Is the feeling of moral superiority for having prevented doctors from being able to perform abortions with expertise and under sterile conditions really worth all that?

I know it’s tempting, when you strongly belive something that has pretty black and white ramifications (life and death, no less) to base your conclusions on black and white premises. It’s very tempting to think that if the means of legally getting abortions is cut off, abortions will not be performed. But people often don’t operate according to such principles in real life. If people need abortions, they will get them, one way or another. More women will become ill or die from infections (thanks to fetal matter left behind during amateur procedures, for example) than currently do, and the babies will be dead as well. (Some who cite the sanctity of life to buttress their argument will chuckle that these women got what they had coming. Did I mention hypocrisy?) Since there’ll be no oversight, abortions will be performed late term. Maybe some crass home abortionists will even find a way to make a profit from the fetal tissue. Moreover, maybe they’ll actively seek clients and will provide bad (not to mention unqualified) advice to women who might otherwise choose a different option. It’s an ugly prospect to consider, but it’s how some percentage of the world population works, and crying that they shouldn’t doesn’t change the fact that they will.

Accordingly, I think we’d do better to make sure that those who need abortions can get them safely, lest we lose two lives instead of just the one for any given abortion. An appreciation for the sanctity of life really demands that we try to guarantee as much. There’s more to sanctity, I think, than an appreciation of simple existence. To force a life where none is wanted is to demean that particular life rather than to revere life in general. Forcing such a life is like eating food simply because it’s on your plate rather than because you need it to nourish your body. It is a sort of gluttony, a form of greed, and the worst, most misplaced, sort of moral masturbation.

Desperate women in South Dakota now have what appears to be a workable, if frightening, set of instructions for terminating unwanted pregnancies. I’m not generally a squeamish person, but thinking about these home-grown procedures and all the things that can go wrong — a tiny arm left in the uterus by a first-time scraper, for example — all the things that can go much more wrong in such a setting than in a clean environment with a practised professional — makes my gorge rise a little. It’s terrifying.

In a not-at-all quaint, nostalgic, roaring-20s sort of way, I can’t help thinking of the home abortion clinic as a sort of modern-day speakeasy. Say the password, slip the bouncer a little cash, and make your way in to the seedy if necessary back alley. What a grim picture.  Have we forgotten how Prohibition turned out?

It’s very much in opposition to that grim picture that Molly writes, and she’s rendering a valuable service, if an unsavory one. How much more palatable is her scenario than one in which a coathanger is used to perform an abortion and in which antibiotics aren’t even a consideration? And how much less so than the alternative currently (if, alas, fleetingly) available in most states? It breaks my heart that there may be a need for such a document, but I’m glad somebody’s been pragmatic enough to write it.

Twenty Months

I’m not the worst father in the world, but I sometimes feel like it because my priorities don’t always line up as they should. Lennie turned 20 months old yesterday and I’ve done a lamentable job of documenting her life. The Learn Houston trio was enjoying a Saturday morning cuddle in bed today, and when Lennie got down off the bed and ran into the living room to play for a few minutes, Mleeka said something about how weird it was that our child was old enough to go away and play of her own volition. And boy is it. Partially in preparation for making a DVD of Lennie’s life so far for my 90-year-old grandmother, whom we visited last weekend, and partially out of nostalgia, we’ve been watching a lot of old videos of Lennie lately. It wasn’t so very long ago that we were having to tell her how to play and in many cases to actually operate her hands and feet for her. How did she get from there to where she is now without my documenting every last detail? How could it all have slipped by? Maybe I am the worst father in the world.

Whining about it’s not worth very much. Let’s move on to some recent high points.

On our trip to see my grandmother last weekend, Mleeka and I tried to name as many of Lennie’s words as we could. We wrote down 168 that we felt pretty solid about including, and we’ve thought of more since then. There are some that might have counted that we just didn’t feel fair about counting. In any case, she’s up around 200 words, and she mixes some of those up into short, meaningful sentences. She knows how to ask for things, and it’s easier and easier to communicate with her.

When I last wrote, she had begun telling us when she had pooped. She hasn’t made a whole lot of progress on that front, though the Dolly Parton Imagination Library (incidentally, if you’re aware of and eligible for the Dolly Parton Imagination Library program and aren’t taking advantage of it, you should be publicly flayed) just sent us a book about pottying, and I’ve started sitting Lennie on her potty to read it to her. The other night, shortly after we started reading (she was standing, however), she started grunting and got all red in the face, and sure enough, she had crapped when we went to check things out.  She’s taken careful note in recent months of the diaper changing process and frequently does diaper time with her baby dolls. I sat idly by one Saturday morning while she wiped for 20 minutes or more at the subsequently no doubt raw diaper region of poor pink Polly. The only doll she calls by name is Fernanda (a Cabbage Patch doll kindly given to her for Christmas by Ashley, Fleda, Terry, and Bo). She can’t quite get out the whole name, but when she’s distressed to be without her baby, she’ll plaintively cry "Nanda, Nanda!"

Lennie continues to be a dancing fool. Her favorite singer now is Laurie Berkner, her favorite dancing song probably "I Know a Chicken."  Lennie swings her body side to side more rapidly and enthusiastically than you might expect a toddler to be able to during parts of this song, and she always reminds me of an energetic choir member getting down during a lively gospel song. She doesn’t just dance, though. She can sing several lines from the song, among them "I know a chicken," "she laid an egg," and "oh, my goodness!"

Her eating has been uneven in recent months. She’ll down 10 or 12 animal crackers at a sitting if you let her (I’m finding them irresistible myself), and she eats all the carrots out of the Progresso chicken and rice soup I favor. She’ll eat a lot of the chicken out of that as well. But there’s not much else she’s keen on usually. Peas, occasionally, and baked beans of late. She’s decided she likes to eat sandwiches if she can hold them. So when I offered her a bite of my barbecue sandwich today, she pushed it away, but when I gave her the last little bit of it to hold herself, she took it happily. When you’re eating a sandwich and she wants to hold it, she’ll say something that sounds more or less like sandwich and then hold her arms up, joined together at the wrists with her fingers outspread in a pretty good sandwich cradle.

Zac and Ella spent the day with us on Monday, and I took the day off work to help and just because I thought it’d be fun. And fun it was. Mleeka made flubber and playdoh with Zac, and we all made playdoh animals and shapes. Ella demonstrated that she’s fond of sandwiches too, eating probably a quarter of mine (luckily, I also had soup, though someone had eaten most of the carrots and chicken out of it). During naptime for the girls, I took Zac out and we got a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie and a corresponding Playstation game, and we had fun playing that and some downtime while he watched the movie. It was a fun day, and it’s neat to see Lennie socializing with other kids. Yesterday, Ella spent most of the workday with us, and Lennie’s little friend Lowen came over for a couple of hours. I had to work and missed it all, but I gather the three of them got along famously. Tonight, we go over to Dave and Karen’s to celebrate Ella’s second birthday a week late.

Mleeka took Lennie to the zoo this week (with Lowen and his mom), and for the first time, she was really engaged. The last time we went, Mleeka was home sick, and Lennie and I met Karen and her wingnuts with another friend and her infant. It was chilly and stressful, and I turned out to be coming down with something myself, and Lennie didn’t seem to care much about being there. But this week, she loved the gibbons in particular, she got to see an elephant pee and poop, and she reportedly saw the neon urine stream of a rhino. We have video of her in the petting zoo kissing a big goat and brushing its hair, occasionally bending at the waist to look into the kneeling animal’s face and say, "hi, goat."

The other day, I tricked Lennie into kissing me a half a dozen times in a row by hiding the fact that she was kissing me in a facial feature identification game. Can you kiss Daddy’s nose? Can you kiss Daddy’s eye? And so on. It was wonderful. The best thing she does right now from my perspective is that sometimes, when I’m holding her, she’ll pat my back and hug in very tightly. She’s napping on the floor with Mleeka right now (how she does so through the racket of Mleeka’s shooting up enemies on the Playstation I don’t know). Just a few minutes before I handed her down there, I was holding her and said "Pat Daddy’s back." She did, and she gave me a squeeze, and I melted and told her I loved her and that she was my favorite little person. I tell her that a lot, and I don’t think it’s the sort of thing you can really understand the meaning of until you’ve got a cute little niblet of your own.

Daddy Bulba

Wikipedia’s entry on vulva includes the following explanation: "In common speech, the term "vagina" is often used improperly to refer to the vulva or female genitals generally, even though strictly speaking the vagina is a specific internal structure and the vulva is the exterior genitalia only. Calling the vulva the vagina is akin to calling the mouth the throat."

The female genitals have many colloquial names, and parents find different names acceptable to teach their children. Some stick with the timeless classic "pee pee." Others go with the anatomically inaccurate (when it comes to the parts involved in diaper changes, at least, unless I’ve been doing it wrong) "vagina." Mleeka knew someone once whose kid called it a yoni. Mleeka has encouraged Lennie to call hers a vulva. It’s accurate, not offensive (we could have gone with snatch or another vulgar colloquialism, after all), and not terribly difficult for a 20-month-old (as of yesterday) to approximate in speech. Lennie’s got it pretty well down. Now, when she reaches down there with both hands during a diaper change and tugs (and I mean tugs), she can call it more or less by its proper name. "Bulba," she says.

So she’s got the vocabulary. All she needs now is to apply it correctly. Sometimes when I step out of the shower (let me pause for a minute and say that if you’re choking over the fact that my 20-month-old daughter sees me naked sometimes, just grow up and get over it; it’s not like nudity is bad or in any way unnatural, and it’s sure not as if I’m doing a pole dance for her or anything), she’ll point to my butt and say "Daddy booty" (why we’ve chosen a colloquial term for that muscle and have insisted on something more clinical for the old naughty bits I’m not sure). Then she’ll sometimes point to my junk and say "Daddy bulba."

So. Yes. I seem to have a vulva. I’m a little hesitant to teach her that what I have is called penis because the same people shocked that my young daughter has in fact seen my penis as I’ve stepped out of the shower will no doubt call child protective services if they hear of her saying "Daddy penis."  Daddy bulba will do for now. As her pronunciation improves a little, I can perhaps feel somewhat safe in the likelihood that people who may hear her speaking for whatever reason about my genitals will think she’s in fact talking about my durable German car.

If Your Daddy Fucks You

Beware, adolescent females of South Dakota: If your daddy fucks you and gets you pregnant, you’re shit outta luck.

The South Dakota House today approved a bill banning abortions in all cases in which the life of the mother isn’t at risk. The potential life of a potential human being thus trumps the actual life and rights of a person physically mature enough to produce offspring.

Small clump of cells 1, victimized child 0.

PHP5

Brushing up a little on some of the things available in PHP5. Here’s something that made me weep happy tears. Given the XML file:

<people>
    <person>
        <name>Daryl L. L. Houston></name>
        <coolness>100%></coolness>
    </person>
    <person>
        <name>Steve Urkel></name>
        <coolness>-100%></coolness>
    </person>
</people>

And the code:

<?php

$people = simplexml_load_file('test.xml');
foreach($people->person as $person){
        print $person->name . ' (' . $person->coolness . ')' . "\n";
}

?>

You get the output:

Daryl L. L. Houston (100%)
Steve Urkel (-100%)

No iterating over arrays, no finding the right PEAR class and making sure you’ve got the right versions of dependent PEAR classes installed. It Just Works™.

I’ve more or less avoided PHP5 to date, as much of the code I write wouldn’t benefit a great deal from many of the things I understand PHP5 to provide, but this alone makes it worth a second glance.

Making an Honest Man of Myself

For a long time now, I’ve been very pleased to use open source software. To the uninitiated, what that means is that all of the software I use on a daily basis is free. There’s much more nuance to the culture surrounding open source software, but that’s what’s really significant about it to me with respect to daily use.

For example, when I was a Windows user, I never ponied up and paid for a license for Microsoft Word. If it didn’t come on my computer, I used an old CD to install it, probably using an install key I found on the internet. Open source software lets me have great (often comparable) software at no cost and with no guilt. I simply download Open Office and use that as my document software now. My use of and later involvement with the production and marketing of open source software have bled in recent years into another significant area of my daily life.

As a programmer, I often find myself listening to music while I work. My tastes vary. Sometimes I’ll pop in 20th century Estonian classical and sometimes Eminem. Sometimes bluegrass, sometimes Chemical Brothers. Sometimes the Statler Brothers or Aaron Neville and sometimes RadioHead or Nine Inch Nails. Much of the music I’ve listened to over the past few years has been pirated. I had one employer that kept a music library selected by its employees. That is, each month, each employee got to pick an album that the company bought and had available for the employees to listen to. Another company had some people in it who happened to toss mp3s of a lot of their songs onto a server. I’ve derived much enjoyment and distraction from songs I copied from these sources.

And lately, I’ve been feeling pretty guilty about it, largely because I’ve also felt guilty about stealing software as I used to do. A few times recently, I’ve declined to share my music with friends who got iPods. It’s hard to do that, to know you’re going to come off as some sort of ninny for being so rigid about not wanting to facilitate music theft. At the same time, though, I’ve kept and enjoyed the music I’ve stolen over the years. It was pretty hypocritical. I’ve justified it in part by saying “well, it’s already stolen, and I can’t unsteal it.” But that’s bullshit. Any justification is bullshit.

So today, I deleted it. There are probably a few tunes I inadvertently skipped (you try going quickly through a few thousand songs to delete the ones you didn’t buy), but I made a good faith effort to purge anything I haven’t either personally bought or been given a legitimately purchased copy of. I’m now an honest man, no longer a hypocrite. And it feels good.

If you’re a friend and you’ve asked for music, please don’t take personally my disinclination to give it to you. And don’t think I’m judging you. I don’t care who does what. I just know that I personally felt guilty for using music I hadn’t paid for that people expect to be paid for, so I’m not doing it anymore. I also feel guilty when I accidentally kill a bug (I prefer to let them out the door), but that doesn’t mean I’m looking at you askance if you bust out a flyswatter.

I’ll miss a lot of the music I deleted, though a lot of it was junk I’ve never listened to very much (so I really lose two sorts of burden as a result of the deletion). The upside is that I can purchase much of it back and be legitimate. Radio Head doesn’t seem to have anything on iTunes, and that’s perhaps my biggest woe. But it’s a pretty small price to pay in exchange for not feeling like a hypocrite.

More on Cheney


In this Washington Post article about Cheney’s hunting accident, I happened to see the pictured ad for a Slate editorial on the subject. The world is finally starting to catch on to some of my brilliant observations.

Marginally more seriously, I do tend to wonder how big an issue some of this is. Yes, it stinks that Cheney shot his friend, but is the whole disclosure thing really that big a deal? I mean, of course it needs to be disclosed that Cheney shot somebody, but who really cares whether it was reported by his friend or by him? This seems only tangentially related to the general air of secrecy surrounding the current administration. I can’t help thinking some of the mainstream media (to use a politically charged right-wing buzz word) is blowing this out of proportion. On the other hand, plenty of right wingers are being reactionary and characteristically judgmental as well. Fanaticism and irrationality cut both ways, I guess.

Update.
So I just ran across another article that voices an outcry that Cheney should come forward about the shooting. WTF? It’s not like there’s a shroud of mystery around what happened. Do we really need to hear him publicly say that he feels bad about shooting his friend? Of course he feels bad about it, to the extent that a cyborg can feel bad. I’m as opposed to this administration’s politics as anybody, but let’s not let that bleed into our evaluation of the man’s basic humanity. Well, let’s do so where it’s appropriate. Some of his policies seem sort of inhumane from some perspectives, though his supporters would probably argue that sometimes torture, abridgments of rights, and other things this administration has embraced may represent sad means to necessary ends. But let’s not jump on the guy for not coming forward and making some politically expedient speech about how sad he is to have shot his friend in the face when of fucking course he feels bad about it. Geez.

Cheney/Fudd Redux

A couple of months ago, I blogged the picture seen here without much in the way of commentary. Given Dick Cheney’s recent shooting of a friend while out hunting, well, I’m just going go ahead and pat myself on the back for my foresight and consider that there’s one more piece of evidence supporting the correlation the picture proposes.

Chicken or Egg

In arguing against naturalistic accounts of how the world got to be as it is, some religious folk advance the argument that it’s inconceivably improbable that the earth could have come into existence more or less randomly, given how well-suited it seems to be for the life that thrives upon it. For example, it’s often pointed out that the earth is just the right distance from the sun to get sufficient light without getting too much heat for the life that thrives here. On the surface, this seems a compelling argument in favor of an intelligent designer.

But in fact this is a backwards approach. It’s not that the earth was especially formulated to accommodate the physical makeup of human beings and the other extant organisms. Rather, it seems reasonable to suggest that the planet emerged as it did and that whatever organisms could survive under its conditions survived. Organisms that require extremely high or low temperatures or greater or lesser light than our sun provides simply died out. For those of us left, it may seem as if the earth was especially formulated to our needs. And while that is perhaps a plausible assumption, it certainly isn’t a necessary assumption, and it doesn’t on its own make a very good case for the existence of any intelligent designer.

A thought experiment may be useful here. Consider a basketball tournament. Let’s assume that all games are played on the same court. Initially, there are many contenders for a championship title. As playoffs progress, less able teams are pared off the bracket. Finally, you get down to two teams, and one of them prevails. Now one could suggest that the basketball court was created in such a way that it was ideal for the team that ultimately won. That is, it was created in such a way that its court and rims and backboards provided just the right bounces for the winning team, that its acoustics were just right, so that cheering in favor of the winning team bolstered the team, while jeers went essentially unheard. In this case, one must surely credit the builder of the basketball arena for the team’s victory. But this is backwards. It was of course the team’s collective skill that led to its ultimate victory.

Similarly, in the matter of the fitness of the earth for its inhabitants, one must conclude that the inhabitants of the earth are those who were suited to inhabit it and not that the earth was suited to its ihabitants.