Thursday, August 31, 2006
Dependency Ratios and Economic Growth/Decline
Malcolm Gladwell has an article in the August 28 issue of the New Yorker that caught my attention (by the way, his website and blog are also interesting if you like that sort of thing).
In the article, he linked the cause of Ireland's economic miracle and the financial crisis at G.M. to what demographers call the "dependency ratio". This is the "relation between the number of people who aren't of working age and the number of people who are."
The relationship is this.
"In the past two decades, for instance, Ireland has gone from being one of the most economically backward countries in Western Europe to being one of the strongest: its growth rate has been roughly double that of the rest of Europe. There is no shortage of conventional explanations. Ireland joined the European Union. It opened up its markets. It invested well in education and economic infrastructure. It's a politically stable country with a sophisticated, mobile workforce."
"But, as the Harvard economists David Bloom and David Canning suggest in their study of the 'Celtic Tiger,' of greater importance may have been a singular demographic fact. In 1979, restrictions on contraception that had been in place since Ireland's founding were lifted, and the birth rate began to fall. In 1970, the average Irishwoman had 3.9 children. By the mid-nineteen-nineties, that number was less than two. AS a result, when the Irish children born in the nineteen-sixties hit the workforce, there weren't a lot of children in the generation just behind them. Ireland was suddenly free of the enormous social cost of supporting and educating and caring for a large dependent population."
G.M.'s decline, on the other hand is, according to Gladwell, due to the 1950's president of General Motors, Charles E. Wilson. At the time there was a proposal in 1959 by the head of the Toledo local of the United Auto Workers, Richard Gosser to create a regional pension plan to spread risks across many small auto-parts makers, electrical-appliance manufacturers, and plastic shops in the Toledo area. "Every company in the area, Gosser proposed, should pay ten cents an hour, per worker, into a centralized fund."
According to Gladwell, business owners were terrified: 'This might be efficient and rational, but it's too dangerous.' Instead, they, lead by Wilson, offered a company pension. "They took on the costs of setting up an individual company pension, at great expense, in order to head off what thye saw as too much organized power for workers in the region." Or, in other words: "collectivization was a threat to the free market and to the autonomy of business owners. In [Wilson's] view, companies themselves ought to assume the risks of providing insurance."
This is all fine and dandy when you've got a lot of business, and loads of workers and only a few retirees. Or, in demographese: low dependency ratios (nonworker-to-worker ratio). "Charlie Wilson's promise to his workers, then, contained an audacious assumption about G.M.'s dependency ratio: that the company would always ahve enough active workers to cover the costs of its retired workers--that it would always be like Ireland."
Apparently Wilson never read Schumpeter.
Or any economic development theory for that matter.
Of course, as it happens in strong, dynamic economies, where people are free to act entreprenurially, production in any and all industries a) becomes mroe efficient(read: less workers needed to produce the same output) and b) evolves in order to decrease costs (read: any attempt to substitute capital for labor in order to decrease labor costs which are usually the bulk of expenses). "In 1962, G.M. had four hundred and sixty-four thousand U.S. employees and was paying benefits to forty thousand retirees and their spouses, for a dependency ratio of 1 to 11.6. Last year, it had a hundred and forty-one thousand workers and paid benefits to four hundred and fifty-three thousand retirees, for a dependency ratio fo 3.2 to 1.
What does all of this mean? "Markets work best when the burdens of benefits are broadly shared."
In the article, he linked the cause of Ireland's economic miracle and the financial crisis at G.M. to what demographers call the "dependency ratio". This is the "relation between the number of people who aren't of working age and the number of people who are."
The relationship is this.
"In the past two decades, for instance, Ireland has gone from being one of the most economically backward countries in Western Europe to being one of the strongest: its growth rate has been roughly double that of the rest of Europe. There is no shortage of conventional explanations. Ireland joined the European Union. It opened up its markets. It invested well in education and economic infrastructure. It's a politically stable country with a sophisticated, mobile workforce."
"But, as the Harvard economists David Bloom and David Canning suggest in their study of the 'Celtic Tiger,' of greater importance may have been a singular demographic fact. In 1979, restrictions on contraception that had been in place since Ireland's founding were lifted, and the birth rate began to fall. In 1970, the average Irishwoman had 3.9 children. By the mid-nineteen-nineties, that number was less than two. AS a result, when the Irish children born in the nineteen-sixties hit the workforce, there weren't a lot of children in the generation just behind them. Ireland was suddenly free of the enormous social cost of supporting and educating and caring for a large dependent population."
G.M.'s decline, on the other hand is, according to Gladwell, due to the 1950's president of General Motors, Charles E. Wilson. At the time there was a proposal in 1959 by the head of the Toledo local of the United Auto Workers, Richard Gosser to create a regional pension plan to spread risks across many small auto-parts makers, electrical-appliance manufacturers, and plastic shops in the Toledo area. "Every company in the area, Gosser proposed, should pay ten cents an hour, per worker, into a centralized fund."
According to Gladwell, business owners were terrified: 'This might be efficient and rational, but it's too dangerous.' Instead, they, lead by Wilson, offered a company pension. "They took on the costs of setting up an individual company pension, at great expense, in order to head off what thye saw as too much organized power for workers in the region." Or, in other words: "collectivization was a threat to the free market and to the autonomy of business owners. In [Wilson's] view, companies themselves ought to assume the risks of providing insurance."
This is all fine and dandy when you've got a lot of business, and loads of workers and only a few retirees. Or, in demographese: low dependency ratios (nonworker-to-worker ratio). "Charlie Wilson's promise to his workers, then, contained an audacious assumption about G.M.'s dependency ratio: that the company would always ahve enough active workers to cover the costs of its retired workers--that it would always be like Ireland."
Apparently Wilson never read Schumpeter.
Or any economic development theory for that matter.
Of course, as it happens in strong, dynamic economies, where people are free to act entreprenurially, production in any and all industries a) becomes mroe efficient(read: less workers needed to produce the same output) and b) evolves in order to decrease costs (read: any attempt to substitute capital for labor in order to decrease labor costs which are usually the bulk of expenses). "In 1962, G.M. had four hundred and sixty-four thousand U.S. employees and was paying benefits to forty thousand retirees and their spouses, for a dependency ratio of 1 to 11.6. Last year, it had a hundred and forty-one thousand workers and paid benefits to four hundred and fifty-three thousand retirees, for a dependency ratio fo 3.2 to 1.
What does all of this mean? "Markets work best when the burdens of benefits are broadly shared."
Apples and Oranges: The Beginnings of My Short New Adventure
Yesterday I attended a "new faculty orientation" at Macalester.
It was enlightening, to say the least.
The two most significant differences between that small "highly selective liberal arts college" and the second-rate public state school that I call home is a) the students and their personal characteristics on average, and b) the type of service that each institution offers those students.
Both differences have immediate implications for the faculty members.
The dean of students talked extensively about the character of the students at Macalester. It is not surprising that the average student admitted to Macalester has a SAT score of 1400 and a 31 ACT composite, 65 percent of entering students graduated in the top 10 percent of their high school class and 10 percent of entering students are National Merit Scholars.
They're smart. No doubt about it. But this dean emphasized other characteristics. The following comes directly from the copious notes I took during this portion of the program.
They are sheltered. They are taught that they are special. They may have experienced a graduation program from their preschool. They have received what she called "empty applause" meaning that they have been rewarded for things that are not necessarily deserved. They are extremely confident, but this confidence is fragile. One result of this is that they have a sense of entitlement and when they arrive on campus, it is as if they say: "Look at me!" "Here I am!" "Take care of me now. . ."
In terms of advising, they want a prescriptive solution: tell me what I should major in.
Students expect to be known on campus. This creates serious repercussions for faculty because the students expect them to know them personally. Often how hard they are willing to work in a particular class is a function of how personal the instructor is willing to get with the students.
The parents are another ball of wax. Some want daily updates and experience a need to continue to shelter their students. It is very hard for these parents to stop being involved. One survey found that first year women talked with their parents SEVEN (yes, that's 7!) times per day. One faculty member last year received a daily email from a parent in India: "Please make sure that Suzy's eating. . . Did you know that she can't stand her roommate?"
Another story from the dean is that she once received an angry phone call from a parent about a student's grade on a particular exam. While on the phone, the dean pulled up the student's record and realized that he/she was IN THE CLASS AT THAT MOMENT! Apparently the instructor had passed back the test and the student immediately sent her mom a disgruntled text-mail.
On the other hand, the students sound smart and highly motivated. Their motto is "Work hard, play hard, sleep none." They are liberal and feel like issues of race and sexuality should be solved already. Ironically, they are highly aware of class and global issues associated with class.
I say this ironically because as compared to my students (and I don't know the numbers on this) I expect that few of them either a) work during school or even during breaks or b) have to pay for their education themselves. The majority of my students do both AND have very little awareness of class issues (I once asked a class who among them received an ACT score higher than 32. A few raised their hands. I asked those if they considered applying to college elsewhere. Say Yale? They shook their heads. Then I asked if they thought President Bush got a 32 on his ACT score. They have no clue what I'm talking about). Furthermore, at least a third of my students are first-generation college attenders in their family (another rarity for at least the American Mac students).
This all feels overwhelming to me as a faculty member at Mac. The full-time faculty teach fewer students per class and one fewer class per year than do I during a normal load, but they more than make up for it with the hand-holding required of them. The college prides itself in not letting any student "slip through the cracks." This means also that faculty members are expected to be "first responders." This means that they should keep track of attendance and possible personal issues that the students might face that may impede their performance including alcohol or drug abuse. Of course, if presented with this, I would take it seriously, but I do not consider this to be one of my main duties as a faculty member. They are adults. Why not treat them as such.
Additionally, through all of this, I could not help but thing of the SYO and Big. Are we raising them to be too sheltered? To feel too special? Does the medal the SYO receives after her 4-5 year old soccer season ends give her mixed messages despite her two left feet?
I once heard a story on This American Life about a comedienne whose father once told her that his praises must mean something more than her mother's simply BECAUSE they are conditional.
At the time, I thought this hilarious, but now I'm wondering if they are words to live by.
Good luck in first grade Sweet Pea (but don't expect a graduation ceremony until high school -wink!-).
It was enlightening, to say the least.
The two most significant differences between that small "highly selective liberal arts college" and the second-rate public state school that I call home is a) the students and their personal characteristics on average, and b) the type of service that each institution offers those students.
Both differences have immediate implications for the faculty members.
The dean of students talked extensively about the character of the students at Macalester. It is not surprising that the average student admitted to Macalester has a SAT score of 1400 and a 31 ACT composite, 65 percent of entering students graduated in the top 10 percent of their high school class and 10 percent of entering students are National Merit Scholars.
They're smart. No doubt about it. But this dean emphasized other characteristics. The following comes directly from the copious notes I took during this portion of the program.
They are sheltered. They are taught that they are special. They may have experienced a graduation program from their preschool. They have received what she called "empty applause" meaning that they have been rewarded for things that are not necessarily deserved. They are extremely confident, but this confidence is fragile. One result of this is that they have a sense of entitlement and when they arrive on campus, it is as if they say: "Look at me!" "Here I am!" "Take care of me now. . ."
In terms of advising, they want a prescriptive solution: tell me what I should major in.
Students expect to be known on campus. This creates serious repercussions for faculty because the students expect them to know them personally. Often how hard they are willing to work in a particular class is a function of how personal the instructor is willing to get with the students.
The parents are another ball of wax. Some want daily updates and experience a need to continue to shelter their students. It is very hard for these parents to stop being involved. One survey found that first year women talked with their parents SEVEN (yes, that's 7!) times per day. One faculty member last year received a daily email from a parent in India: "Please make sure that Suzy's eating. . . Did you know that she can't stand her roommate?"
Another story from the dean is that she once received an angry phone call from a parent about a student's grade on a particular exam. While on the phone, the dean pulled up the student's record and realized that he/she was IN THE CLASS AT THAT MOMENT! Apparently the instructor had passed back the test and the student immediately sent her mom a disgruntled text-mail.
On the other hand, the students sound smart and highly motivated. Their motto is "Work hard, play hard, sleep none." They are liberal and feel like issues of race and sexuality should be solved already. Ironically, they are highly aware of class and global issues associated with class.
I say this ironically because as compared to my students (and I don't know the numbers on this) I expect that few of them either a) work during school or even during breaks or b) have to pay for their education themselves. The majority of my students do both AND have very little awareness of class issues (I once asked a class who among them received an ACT score higher than 32. A few raised their hands. I asked those if they considered applying to college elsewhere. Say Yale? They shook their heads. Then I asked if they thought President Bush got a 32 on his ACT score. They have no clue what I'm talking about). Furthermore, at least a third of my students are first-generation college attenders in their family (another rarity for at least the American Mac students).
This all feels overwhelming to me as a faculty member at Mac. The full-time faculty teach fewer students per class and one fewer class per year than do I during a normal load, but they more than make up for it with the hand-holding required of them. The college prides itself in not letting any student "slip through the cracks." This means also that faculty members are expected to be "first responders." This means that they should keep track of attendance and possible personal issues that the students might face that may impede their performance including alcohol or drug abuse. Of course, if presented with this, I would take it seriously, but I do not consider this to be one of my main duties as a faculty member. They are adults. Why not treat them as such.
Additionally, through all of this, I could not help but thing of the SYO and Big. Are we raising them to be too sheltered? To feel too special? Does the medal the SYO receives after her 4-5 year old soccer season ends give her mixed messages despite her two left feet?
I once heard a story on This American Life about a comedienne whose father once told her that his praises must mean something more than her mother's simply BECAUSE they are conditional.
At the time, I thought this hilarious, but now I'm wondering if they are words to live by.
Good luck in first grade Sweet Pea (but don't expect a graduation ceremony until high school -wink!-).
Monday, August 28, 2006
On Following the Actions and Advice of Adults
We've been having an ongoing discussion with the SYO lately on listening to her own internal voice in order to gauge "right" and "wrong".
This discussion followed a couple of interesting events.
The first occurred after the little black cat had escaped through the front door into the outside world for the fifth time in a day.
A raucus "Goddamnit!" poured out of the SYO's mouth.
If you haven't heard that, from a six year old's mouth, let me just say that it sounds entirely different than from the mouth of an adult. Furthermore, it is like holding up this huge mirror in front of your face. A mirror with bright halogen lights like the ones placed conspiritorially in swimsuit changing rooms. A mirror that shows all of your blackheads, wrinkles and tartar.
The second incident involved two neighborhood girls and our little angel. They were running around in the front yard in the dusk, stealing a few minutes of play before beadtime as we chatted outside with some parents.
They had run out of my view, behind our front hill. I noticed a woman walking her dog and soon after the girls came running back to us. At the time I thought nothing of it.
That night the SYO relayed to us what had transpired with the dog walker and her two neighborhood pals.
Apparently they had been together shaking a new little tree on our boulevard and the woman told them that they shouldn't shake it. One particularly headstrong girl of the three apparently continued to shake it despite the stranger's warning (although the details on this were slightly unclear. I'm sure that the SYO's story was designed to present her best side.). What came next astonished our SYO: the stranger muttered back "What a naughty little girl!"
In her story, the SYO was appalled! How could a stranger tell THEM what to do? She wasn't their parent, after all.
Alone, I coached the SYO after she proclaimed innocence from either a) saying the bad word (SYO: I ALWAYS follow your lead! BioMom: Then why don't you get out of the pool when we ask?) and b) that you always say not to listen to strangers!
I talked with her a bit about listening to her "heart of hearts" and that what is "right" and "wrong" doesn't necessarily depend on the source.
Me: In your heart of hearts, do you think that the stranger with the dog was right or wrong in telling you all to stop shaking the tree?
SYO (sheepishly): Right.
Me: And when your mom and I say 'goddamnit'. . . Were we right or wrong.
SYO (again, sheepishly): Wrong.
Me: See? You know what is right and wrong in your heart. There will be more times now that you are not with us. Times that you will have to decide how to behave. Times that only you will be able to judge yourself and your own behavior.
On a lighter note, we found out that Big likes pickles!
This discussion followed a couple of interesting events.
The first occurred after the little black cat had escaped through the front door into the outside world for the fifth time in a day.
A raucus "Goddamnit!" poured out of the SYO's mouth.
If you haven't heard that, from a six year old's mouth, let me just say that it sounds entirely different than from the mouth of an adult. Furthermore, it is like holding up this huge mirror in front of your face. A mirror with bright halogen lights like the ones placed conspiritorially in swimsuit changing rooms. A mirror that shows all of your blackheads, wrinkles and tartar.
The second incident involved two neighborhood girls and our little angel. They were running around in the front yard in the dusk, stealing a few minutes of play before beadtime as we chatted outside with some parents.
They had run out of my view, behind our front hill. I noticed a woman walking her dog and soon after the girls came running back to us. At the time I thought nothing of it.
That night the SYO relayed to us what had transpired with the dog walker and her two neighborhood pals.
Apparently they had been together shaking a new little tree on our boulevard and the woman told them that they shouldn't shake it. One particularly headstrong girl of the three apparently continued to shake it despite the stranger's warning (although the details on this were slightly unclear. I'm sure that the SYO's story was designed to present her best side.). What came next astonished our SYO: the stranger muttered back "What a naughty little girl!"
In her story, the SYO was appalled! How could a stranger tell THEM what to do? She wasn't their parent, after all.
Alone, I coached the SYO after she proclaimed innocence from either a) saying the bad word (SYO: I ALWAYS follow your lead! BioMom: Then why don't you get out of the pool when we ask?) and b) that you always say not to listen to strangers!
I talked with her a bit about listening to her "heart of hearts" and that what is "right" and "wrong" doesn't necessarily depend on the source.
Me: In your heart of hearts, do you think that the stranger with the dog was right or wrong in telling you all to stop shaking the tree?
SYO (sheepishly): Right.
Me: And when your mom and I say 'goddamnit'. . . Were we right or wrong.
SYO (again, sheepishly): Wrong.
Me: See? You know what is right and wrong in your heart. There will be more times now that you are not with us. Times that you will have to decide how to behave. Times that only you will be able to judge yourself and your own behavior.
On a lighter note, we found out that Big likes pickles!
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Forbes: On Not Marrying Career Women
Damn. I wish I would have read this BEFORE marriage.
Oh, yeah. I can't get married.
Oh yeah. I NEEDED to marry a "career girl" since I'm an academic and don't earn enough money to buy a house AND pay off my grad school loans.
Check out the original Forbes article, the Gawker's CliffsNotes and the counterpoint posted by a friend of mine's office.
Oh, yeah. I can't get married.
Oh yeah. I NEEDED to marry a "career girl" since I'm an academic and don't earn enough money to buy a house AND pay off my grad school loans.
Check out the original Forbes article, the Gawker's CliffsNotes and the counterpoint posted by a friend of mine's office.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Too Much To Say
I've been a negligent blogger lately.
Just too much going on, I can't complain though.
BioMom turned 40 a few days ago and we awoke to find 40 flamingos in the front yard.
I received a negative review from a second rate journal for the fourth time on a paper that I started seriously working on in 2001.
Sometimes I wish that I had a job in which I saw projects from start-to-finish within a period of a few days.
One of the critiques was that I did not have a clear intuitive explanation for one the statistics that I was producing.
Unfortunately, I was unaware of a clear intuitive explanation. I contacted the author of said statistic and recevied the following comment from him:
Hi [Blogauthor],
You are right. [Coauthor] and I could not come up with a clear intuitive
explanation like the one for the Dissimilarity index which shows the
proportion of one of the groups that would have to shift to make the index
show perfect integration. But, in fairness, I'm not sure that the S index,
or the other indexes have a neat summary intuitive explanation either.
Too bad I can't forward this email to the anonymous reviewer.
My coauthor and I promptly readdressed the paper and sent it to a different journal.
Oh, and Big grew two top teeth. Painfully, loudly, sleeplessly, they stretched their way into his gums.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Nascar for Babies
We're lucky enough to have this lovely little free public foot-deep pool and park about three blocks from our house.
The trek is just short enough to warrant walking or biking rather than going via automobile, but just long enough for the SYO to get in a few are we there's yet coupled with heavy sighs and rolls of the shoulders in dramatic overture.
Now that the water's warmed a bit, Big loves it as well.
I discovered, however, that he seems to love it in a unique way as compared to not only the other babies there, but also as compared to the other big kids, and it took me a while to figure this out.
The yellow baby floatie, in the last couple of weeks or so, now fits him such that he can actually stand on the floor of the pool while leaning over on the edge of the floatie.
To him, this must be not unlike us wearing a scuba suit or entering into the nonatmosphere of space that enables us to let go of our earthenly weight: In the floatie, he is light enough to experience walking!
At first, he just walked up to the edge and grabbed at toys or at the cement edge.
Then I noticed that he seemed to like the other flotation devices in the pool and would sort of grab at them as another wee one made his or her orbit.
When he noticed one particularly pink one, I noticed him becoming more encroaching-hawkish even-about grabbing at it, in an act that, ultimately, could be described as nothing less than a chase. At one point the little girl in the middle of the pink tube turned around, annoyed, and said to me:
I don't want him grabbing my floatie!!!
The trek is just short enough to warrant walking or biking rather than going via automobile, but just long enough for the SYO to get in a few are we there's yet coupled with heavy sighs and rolls of the shoulders in dramatic overture.
Now that the water's warmed a bit, Big loves it as well.
I discovered, however, that he seems to love it in a unique way as compared to not only the other babies there, but also as compared to the other big kids, and it took me a while to figure this out.
The yellow baby floatie, in the last couple of weeks or so, now fits him such that he can actually stand on the floor of the pool while leaning over on the edge of the floatie.
To him, this must be not unlike us wearing a scuba suit or entering into the nonatmosphere of space that enables us to let go of our earthenly weight: In the floatie, he is light enough to experience walking!
At first, he just walked up to the edge and grabbed at toys or at the cement edge.
Then I noticed that he seemed to like the other flotation devices in the pool and would sort of grab at them as another wee one made his or her orbit.
When he noticed one particularly pink one, I noticed him becoming more encroaching-hawkish even-about grabbing at it, in an act that, ultimately, could be described as nothing less than a chase. At one point the little girl in the middle of the pink tube turned around, annoyed, and said to me:
I don't want him grabbing my floatie!!!
Monday, August 07, 2006
A Dramatic Reenactment
The SYO comes trotting down the stairs for breakfast after watching a few cartoons.
Do you have a bell?
Um. Yeah! I think I have an old cow bell down in the laundry room.
Can I use it?
Sure. . . What for?
Well, my ankle, well, it sort of hurts when I walk. You know. So, I want the bell so that I can, you know, sit up in bed and. . . . Well, if I need anything. Well, I can ring the bell. . .
Oh. . . So you want the bell so that I will respond to your every need when you ring it?
Yeah. Because my ankle is broken.
But you're walking on it.
Yeah. It is still broken.
Come to think of it, I don't have a bell.
Then, later, while walking up to her room I hear:
Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. For each step.
Do you have a bell?
Um. Yeah! I think I have an old cow bell down in the laundry room.
Can I use it?
Sure. . . What for?
Well, my ankle, well, it sort of hurts when I walk. You know. So, I want the bell so that I can, you know, sit up in bed and. . . . Well, if I need anything. Well, I can ring the bell. . .
Oh. . . So you want the bell so that I will respond to your every need when you ring it?
Yeah. Because my ankle is broken.
But you're walking on it.
Yeah. It is still broken.
Come to think of it, I don't have a bell.
Then, later, while walking up to her room I hear:
Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. For each step.
Beware Garage Sale Sizes
I picked up this night shirt at a friend's garage sale.
It is sized 18 months.
I put it on him the night before and, because it had been so difficult to get over his head and through one arm, I figured that I had two choices:
1. remove the shirt from head and arm or
2. go ahead and stretch it on to the other arm avoiding the fight for the next day when he wouldn't be so tired.
I know jammies are supposed to be tight, but a sausage they are not supposed to resemble!
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Whose Birthday Is It Anyway?
Mother of Four mentioned to 3of4 that it was the SYO's Mom's birthday and that they'd be heading down to our place for some ice cream cake.
Which one?
Which Mom?
Yeah. The one who works, or the one who rides her bike?
Which one?
Which Mom?
Yeah. The one who works, or the one who rides her bike?
Monday, July 31, 2006
Irregular Newsletter: Almost Eight Months
You are nearly eight months old now.
Since my last newsletter, two months ago, you have changed so much, again. The speed of your development amazes me. And, what's more, not only are you changing and growing, but once you've acquired a new skill, it is seems as though you pack it neatly under your belt, never forgetting, always improving on it.
This is definitely unlike myself. I will learn some econometric technique, use it several times for a project. Then, months later come back to it, and it will seem foreign to me as though I am meeting a person for the first time. Not even remembering the face and forgetting the name.
You are amazing that way, Big.
Since my last newsletter you seem practically all grown. Headed off to college.
You finally learned to coordinate your arms and legs to the point of ambulation (on knees) across a flat plane last weekend while we were at the North Shore with MRM#1 and MRM#2. As the SYO enjoyed High School Musical for the 18th time in a row, we let you "vocalize" your way to mastery. Heretofore, you had only been able to get on your hands and knees, rocking your way to frustrated oblivion and a degree of vocalization that I, while alone with you, could not fully absorb. Usually, I would rescue you from your misery and wisk you off to your preferred destination. With the help of three other adults, though, we let you frustrate yourself to mastery.
This, of course, has changed our lives dramatically. You and your unpredictable ways can now be found in odd corners of the rooms after only brief moments out of the room to, perhaps, urinate, for example.
Childproofing has recommenced at a more vigorous pace.
When you're tired, and it is close to bedtime, your vocalizations seem to become more poignant. It is as though you're saying: I know that I'm off to bed now, so let me be more direct with you. To be sure that you understand what I am saying: BABABABABABABA! or MAMAMAMAMAMAMA!
You have inadvertently chosen to vocalize the names we're planning on calling ourselves. But we don't care. We pretend that you know what you're doing all the same, oohing and ahhing back at you. I sometimes respond with a chorus of "Barbara Ann" by the Beach Boys because of it's "BA - BA - BA" lyrics.
We're also learning a little more about your personality.
I would characterize you as, well, as aggressive. I have four empirical observations to support this conclusion.
1. BioMom said that after nipping her n*#$@le, you laughed. Hard.
2. I have observed you grabbing at our littlest cat's hair and pull it. Hard. Afer she cries out and wrangles herself away from your tiny vice grip, you then chase after her, black hairs poking from between your tight-fisted fingers, on your hands and knees, giggling all the while.
3. Snap the bow of my favorite glasses on one single twist, and then laugh when I responded with a resounding "NO!" (Running tally of costs due to your shenanegans: $70).
and
4. Persist on rolling over, head butting, putting your mouth all over, grabbing the hair of, and squeezing the face of a baby about your age who was visiting the other night.
You definitely know your own name, but I'm not sure that you recognize any other specific form of our language, or the two ASL words I've been using with you regularly: "milk" and "more".
You're eating loads of stuff now, but wanting a small, rare fillet. I can barely carry you in the Bjorn and, in fact, bought one with more back support as a birthday gift for myself.
When we go to get you from your crib first thing in the morning, or after any of your naps, you wrap your arms around our necks, squeezing, and your little mouth, open and wet, searches our face in your wild form of a kiss, as if to say: OH! It's YOU! I missed you so much! I'm so glad you're here!
You make me laugh. Hard. Deep belly laughs that warm me up and make everything else just roll off my back.
Thank you again, sweet potato.
Since my last newsletter, two months ago, you have changed so much, again. The speed of your development amazes me. And, what's more, not only are you changing and growing, but once you've acquired a new skill, it is seems as though you pack it neatly under your belt, never forgetting, always improving on it.
This is definitely unlike myself. I will learn some econometric technique, use it several times for a project. Then, months later come back to it, and it will seem foreign to me as though I am meeting a person for the first time. Not even remembering the face and forgetting the name.
You are amazing that way, Big.
Since my last newsletter you seem practically all grown. Headed off to college.
You finally learned to coordinate your arms and legs to the point of ambulation (on knees) across a flat plane last weekend while we were at the North Shore with MRM#1 and MRM#2. As the SYO enjoyed High School Musical for the 18th time in a row, we let you "vocalize" your way to mastery. Heretofore, you had only been able to get on your hands and knees, rocking your way to frustrated oblivion and a degree of vocalization that I, while alone with you, could not fully absorb. Usually, I would rescue you from your misery and wisk you off to your preferred destination. With the help of three other adults, though, we let you frustrate yourself to mastery.
This, of course, has changed our lives dramatically. You and your unpredictable ways can now be found in odd corners of the rooms after only brief moments out of the room to, perhaps, urinate, for example.
Childproofing has recommenced at a more vigorous pace.
When you're tired, and it is close to bedtime, your vocalizations seem to become more poignant. It is as though you're saying: I know that I'm off to bed now, so let me be more direct with you. To be sure that you understand what I am saying: BABABABABABABA! or MAMAMAMAMAMAMA!
You have inadvertently chosen to vocalize the names we're planning on calling ourselves. But we don't care. We pretend that you know what you're doing all the same, oohing and ahhing back at you. I sometimes respond with a chorus of "Barbara Ann" by the Beach Boys because of it's "BA - BA - BA" lyrics.
We're also learning a little more about your personality.
I would characterize you as, well, as aggressive. I have four empirical observations to support this conclusion.
1. BioMom said that after nipping her n*#$@le, you laughed. Hard.
2. I have observed you grabbing at our littlest cat's hair and pull it. Hard. Afer she cries out and wrangles herself away from your tiny vice grip, you then chase after her, black hairs poking from between your tight-fisted fingers, on your hands and knees, giggling all the while.
3. Snap the bow of my favorite glasses on one single twist, and then laugh when I responded with a resounding "NO!" (Running tally of costs due to your shenanegans: $70).
and
4. Persist on rolling over, head butting, putting your mouth all over, grabbing the hair of, and squeezing the face of a baby about your age who was visiting the other night.
You definitely know your own name, but I'm not sure that you recognize any other specific form of our language, or the two ASL words I've been using with you regularly: "milk" and "more".
You're eating loads of stuff now, but wanting a small, rare fillet. I can barely carry you in the Bjorn and, in fact, bought one with more back support as a birthday gift for myself.
When we go to get you from your crib first thing in the morning, or after any of your naps, you wrap your arms around our necks, squeezing, and your little mouth, open and wet, searches our face in your wild form of a kiss, as if to say: OH! It's YOU! I missed you so much! I'm so glad you're here!
You make me laugh. Hard. Deep belly laughs that warm me up and make everything else just roll off my back.
Thank you again, sweet potato.
Another North Shore Perspective: Our More (ahem) Tasteful Version of Hooters?
On the way home from the North Shore this past weekend, we stopped at our usual haunt, the New Scenic Cafe.
This place is unusual not only in its amazing menu and simultaneously kid-friendly yet still elegant atmosphere. Every single time we go (nearly twice per year), the place is stocked with a new crop of funky, easy-on-the-eyes, woman-friendly female waitstaff.
Our travel companions noted our observance of this unusual phenomenon.
Duluth isn't San Fransisco. Or New York. Or Austin. Or even Minneapolis for that matter, so we're always surprised at that place. Where do they get these girls?
This place is unusual not only in its amazing menu and simultaneously kid-friendly yet still elegant atmosphere. Every single time we go (nearly twice per year), the place is stocked with a new crop of funky, easy-on-the-eyes, woman-friendly female waitstaff.
Our travel companions noted our observance of this unusual phenomenon.
Duluth isn't San Fransisco. Or New York. Or Austin. Or even Minneapolis for that matter, so we're always surprised at that place. Where do they get these girls?
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
An Academic Justification for Blogging
Brad DeLong makes a great case for blogging in the Chronicle of Higher Education. By the title, I expected him to reference Dooce. Given the personal nature of my blog, I think I'll still avoid sending a link to my deans.
See the article: Can Blogging Derail Your Career?: The Invisible College.
See the article: Can Blogging Derail Your Career?: The Invisible College.
Monday, July 24, 2006
A Unique Explanation for the Wage Gap
Taggert, over at A Random Walk sent me this link:
Does menstruation explain the gender pay gap?
I'd like to look at the results of this study more closely. How, for example, do they measure "menstrual cycles"? And, if they are comparing men and women, doesn't this just proxy for sex? I suppose it would be interesting to compare women's bargaining ability at different stages of their cycle.
Does menstruation explain the gender pay gap?
I'd like to look at the results of this study more closely. How, for example, do they measure "menstrual cycles"? And, if they are comparing men and women, doesn't this just proxy for sex? I suppose it would be interesting to compare women's bargaining ability at different stages of their cycle.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Two Things Seen and Heard
The following two things were either seen or heard at our little homestead over the past couple of days.
Thing One: The SYO abruptly leaves the room in which we were both hanging out. No less than 30 seconds later, I heard: Mama? What was I doing in here?
Thing Two: During a sink-bath, Big began urnating a steady fountain-like upward stream. While doing so, apparently recognizing a little game that I play with him using either the water spigot or some of his dinosaur bath toys that spray out of their mouths, he makes an attempt to grab at his pee-stream with his newly discovered pincer grasp*!
Thank goodness he has not yet reached the next developmental milestone: "Once your baby perfects grasping, throwing isn't far behind, so watch out. Many babies enjoy hurling their toys and having you pick them up."
*A developmental milestone which lets him pick up small objects such as beads between his thumb and forefinger.
Thing One: The SYO abruptly leaves the room in which we were both hanging out. No less than 30 seconds later, I heard: Mama? What was I doing in here?
Thing Two: During a sink-bath, Big began urnating a steady fountain-like upward stream. While doing so, apparently recognizing a little game that I play with him using either the water spigot or some of his dinosaur bath toys that spray out of their mouths, he makes an attempt to grab at his pee-stream with his newly discovered pincer grasp*!
Thank goodness he has not yet reached the next developmental milestone: "Once your baby perfects grasping, throwing isn't far behind, so watch out. Many babies enjoy hurling their toys and having you pick them up."
*A developmental milestone which lets him pick up small objects such as beads between his thumb and forefinger.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
My Whiskey Tango Moment(s)
I got to meet LesbianDad last night at a reading for the book Confessions of The Other Mother! I really appreciate her beginning attempts at creating a space and language for the kind of parents that we are -- somewhere between dad and mom.
In practice, however, my particular form of fatherhood unfortunately seems to resemble my own father's rather than what LesbianDad calls "the best of a dad and the best of a mom."
I call this perversion, the "1950s Lesbian Dad." [Let me clarify: My dad was an older dad for me. He and Mom had my brothers when they were 19 years old in 1944, and then, well, I guess you could call me an "accident", but I came along 25 years later. Let's just say that the pill wasn't 97% effective in 1969.]
Alas, we all have our own "worst parenting moments."
This one, for me, occurred at the culmination of what felt like (and actually became) the longest drive home. BioMom and I have vowed now to never drive long distances during the day again. Ever. Big just refuses to miss ANYTHING! Sleep? Why? I might miss something! I wish I could still enjoy the nuances of the Iowa landscape to that degree.
I think he slept to twenty minute naps during the entire 8 hour (which should have been 5.5 hour) drive.
As a result, we stopped many, MANY times.
During the last stop, only about an hour to our destination, we found ourselves at the infamous Dairy Queen.
So, picture this: Dairy Queen in rural America during the vacation months. Not just that, it wasn't JUST a Dairy Queen. . . It was a Braissere! It was that greasy, dirty combination of fries and cream with the floors that simultaneously slip AND slide. At one point Big spit up about a gallon of formula on the floor while I was trying to wear him out walking about the place. Let's just say that when I went to clean it up, I couldn't tell where he had actually spit up.
You get the picture.
Of course, though, all of this did not diminish our appetites. I order a Dilly Bar and BioMom orders the SYO a small cone, and herself a medium cone.
As though arguing in front of a judge and jury, the SYO begins making her case about the degree of unfairness at getting the smaller of the two cones.
Why do I get a small?
No response.
Why do you get a big one?
No response.
That's not FA-IR! (Note the word became two syllables.)
This goes on and on, the SYO meandering through all imaginable permutations of the argument.
I then make the mistake of getting involved.
Mom gets a bigger one because she is bigger than you.
But that's not FA-IR!!!
Seeing that the fair argument is getting her nowhere, she moves on to the next tactic. While holding her own cone (now actually larger than BioMom's because she's been arguing rather than eating and because BioMom has been focusing on the opposite) in her left hand, she says to BioMom:
Can I have a bite?
No response.
Can I have some of your's?
You know, you really should share!!!
Again, this goes on and on.
I think the SYO was also just having fun. Will this button get a reaction? No. How about THIS one?
She knows that this completely pushes my buttons -- asking for more of something when you have some of it in your own hand.
I snap:
SHUH-UHT UH-HUHP!!! (Note the four syllable pronunciation).
I told the SYO to "shut up" in a DQ in rural Minnesota.
Seriously.
Both BioMom and the SYO stop, mid-lick, and look at me in shock.
Hell, I look at myself in shock.
The only thing I could do at that point is take myself out of the scene. I start walking away and hear:
You can't say that to me!!
Note: I did, later apologize to her.
In practice, however, my particular form of fatherhood unfortunately seems to resemble my own father's rather than what LesbianDad calls "the best of a dad and the best of a mom."
I call this perversion, the "1950s Lesbian Dad." [Let me clarify: My dad was an older dad for me. He and Mom had my brothers when they were 19 years old in 1944, and then, well, I guess you could call me an "accident", but I came along 25 years later. Let's just say that the pill wasn't 97% effective in 1969.]
Alas, we all have our own "worst parenting moments."
This one, for me, occurred at the culmination of what felt like (and actually became) the longest drive home. BioMom and I have vowed now to never drive long distances during the day again. Ever. Big just refuses to miss ANYTHING! Sleep? Why? I might miss something! I wish I could still enjoy the nuances of the Iowa landscape to that degree.
I think he slept to twenty minute naps during the entire 8 hour (which should have been 5.5 hour) drive.
As a result, we stopped many, MANY times.
During the last stop, only about an hour to our destination, we found ourselves at the infamous Dairy Queen.
So, picture this: Dairy Queen in rural America during the vacation months. Not just that, it wasn't JUST a Dairy Queen. . . It was a Braissere! It was that greasy, dirty combination of fries and cream with the floors that simultaneously slip AND slide. At one point Big spit up about a gallon of formula on the floor while I was trying to wear him out walking about the place. Let's just say that when I went to clean it up, I couldn't tell where he had actually spit up.
You get the picture.
Of course, though, all of this did not diminish our appetites. I order a Dilly Bar and BioMom orders the SYO a small cone, and herself a medium cone.
As though arguing in front of a judge and jury, the SYO begins making her case about the degree of unfairness at getting the smaller of the two cones.
Why do I get a small?
No response.
Why do you get a big one?
No response.
That's not FA-IR! (Note the word became two syllables.)
This goes on and on, the SYO meandering through all imaginable permutations of the argument.
I then make the mistake of getting involved.
Mom gets a bigger one because she is bigger than you.
But that's not FA-IR!!!
Seeing that the fair argument is getting her nowhere, she moves on to the next tactic. While holding her own cone (now actually larger than BioMom's because she's been arguing rather than eating and because BioMom has been focusing on the opposite) in her left hand, she says to BioMom:
Can I have a bite?
No response.
Can I have some of your's?
You know, you really should share!!!
Again, this goes on and on.
I think the SYO was also just having fun. Will this button get a reaction? No. How about THIS one?
She knows that this completely pushes my buttons -- asking for more of something when you have some of it in your own hand.
I snap:
SHUH-UHT UH-HUHP!!! (Note the four syllable pronunciation).
I told the SYO to "shut up" in a DQ in rural Minnesota.
Seriously.
Both BioMom and the SYO stop, mid-lick, and look at me in shock.
Hell, I look at myself in shock.
The only thing I could do at that point is take myself out of the scene. I start walking away and hear:
You can't say that to me!!
Note: I did, later apologize to her.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Bertie's Birdbath
One afternoon last week, while on our way home from Cousin's brother's pool, the SYO wondered aloud how I knew where I was going and if we were lost.
Cousin had taken her youngest home earlier for a nap and we were lucky enough to have the star sleeper in town (Big), who took a nice nap in the pack and play while we lingered in the pool with the 105 degree sun at our backs. Without her to follow home, the SYO figured that we would not be able to find our way back.
How do you know where you are going?
She wondered.
I had, in fact grown up in Omaha, and we were not far from my old digs at that point.
Do you want to see the house where I grew up?
I wondered.
Cousin and I grew up about a block away from each other and the SYO was aware of the local lore.
YEAH! I wanna see the big hill you had to walk up to visit each other.
I'd given her the old -- it was up hill BOTH ways -- thing.
We drove slowly past my old house.
It has changed a lot. The crab apple tree that I used to climb out front has been cut down, there is a fence around the yard. The pairs of evergreens that cornered the backyard, creating the best hideaways beneath and between them for little summer daydreamers had obviously also passed on.
But I noticed one steadfast landmark: my mother's birdbath.
Images from my childhood-real and imagined in that way that our mind lets us incorporate old photographs that we've seen a hundred times into our memory as though we actually remember the moment the image was taken-flashed before my eyes:
We drove away, but I was obsessed with the birdbath for the next several days.
My mom died when I was nine, and that house held a lot of memories for me. Plus, I only have a few things of hers, so I felt like an archaeologist who had just excavated the missing link. Had I discovered one of the last remaining vestiges of my mother?
I imagined her moving in to the new house, and with her love of birds (hence the apropo shortening of her name, "Alberta" to the nickname "Bertie") putting up a birdhouse and birdbath. I imagined her painstakingly choosing among many birdbaths, and then the decision about where in the yard it would live.
In fact, I did not even know if she had actually put it there.
Had it been in the back yard when they moved in?
I interrogated my aunt (Cousin's mom): Do you remember it? Did she put it there? Was it hers?
Maybe I was justifying ownership. Reparations if you will.
In any case, she, nor any of her sons (my older cousins) even remembered its existence (I did not have the above pictures as evidence with me). But this fact only fueled my obsession: if they did not remember it, then she SURELY put it there, no? Or, maybe it was so consistent with her landscape that it did not stand out for them, the way it did for me.
Plus, if I remembered correctly, it was made of concrete, and it had obviously not moved in nearly 30 years. If someone could move it, wouldn't they have? Now that the trees were gone, it seemed absurdly far away from the corner of the fence. I'm sure I have changed everything about the landscape of our own backyard. My fingers have touched everything, making claim on all parts of our scenery.
It MUST have been her doing, since it was in the exact same position I remembered it so long ago.
Discussions about the method of acquisition ensued.
Cousin felt that it was my due.
BioMom felt that taking it would be unethical.
Cousin's brothers still didn't belive it existed.
Cousin's mom thought we should offer the current residents some cash in exchange for the birdbath.
The house itself has a rather well-known tragedy associated with it. One that any Omahaian of the early 1970s would be well aware of, were they given a little nudge to remind them. I imagined ringing the doorbell and inquiring after the birdbath, reminding them that I was the one-year-old in the house at the time.
This was a rather manipulative approach, and it also felt quite risky to me. What if they said "No"? Stealing would be an inadequate alternative in the wake of such a rejection.
In the end, Cousin, fortified with some liquid courage, talked me into taking the (ahem) road less traveled.
Under the cover of darkness (and a black shirt that her husband loaned me) we went back to the scene of our childhood and attempted to retreive my mom's birdbath.
We had it all worked out -- park the car far away. . . Enter through the back yard neighbor's. . . replace the birdbath with a newer version.
We did not expect the friendly, but loquacious dog.
No steaks or large bones were in sight.
In the end, we got away only with the top portion.
Biomom's response: YOU'VE GOT TO GO BACK AND GET THE BASE!
I unloaded it from the car yesterday and, in all of it's old, cracked glory, I am in love with it, and feel like I have a piece of my mom here with me in Minnesota.
Cousin had taken her youngest home earlier for a nap and we were lucky enough to have the star sleeper in town (Big), who took a nice nap in the pack and play while we lingered in the pool with the 105 degree sun at our backs. Without her to follow home, the SYO figured that we would not be able to find our way back.
How do you know where you are going?
She wondered.
I had, in fact grown up in Omaha, and we were not far from my old digs at that point.
Do you want to see the house where I grew up?
I wondered.
Cousin and I grew up about a block away from each other and the SYO was aware of the local lore.
YEAH! I wanna see the big hill you had to walk up to visit each other.
I'd given her the old -- it was up hill BOTH ways -- thing.
We drove slowly past my old house.
It has changed a lot. The crab apple tree that I used to climb out front has been cut down, there is a fence around the yard. The pairs of evergreens that cornered the backyard, creating the best hideaways beneath and between them for little summer daydreamers had obviously also passed on.
But I noticed one steadfast landmark: my mother's birdbath.
Images from my childhood-real and imagined in that way that our mind lets us incorporate old photographs that we've seen a hundred times into our memory as though we actually remember the moment the image was taken-flashed before my eyes:
We drove away, but I was obsessed with the birdbath for the next several days.
My mom died when I was nine, and that house held a lot of memories for me. Plus, I only have a few things of hers, so I felt like an archaeologist who had just excavated the missing link. Had I discovered one of the last remaining vestiges of my mother?
I imagined her moving in to the new house, and with her love of birds (hence the apropo shortening of her name, "Alberta" to the nickname "Bertie") putting up a birdhouse and birdbath. I imagined her painstakingly choosing among many birdbaths, and then the decision about where in the yard it would live.
In fact, I did not even know if she had actually put it there.
Had it been in the back yard when they moved in?
I interrogated my aunt (Cousin's mom): Do you remember it? Did she put it there? Was it hers?
Maybe I was justifying ownership. Reparations if you will.
In any case, she, nor any of her sons (my older cousins) even remembered its existence (I did not have the above pictures as evidence with me). But this fact only fueled my obsession: if they did not remember it, then she SURELY put it there, no? Or, maybe it was so consistent with her landscape that it did not stand out for them, the way it did for me.
Plus, if I remembered correctly, it was made of concrete, and it had obviously not moved in nearly 30 years. If someone could move it, wouldn't they have? Now that the trees were gone, it seemed absurdly far away from the corner of the fence. I'm sure I have changed everything about the landscape of our own backyard. My fingers have touched everything, making claim on all parts of our scenery.
It MUST have been her doing, since it was in the exact same position I remembered it so long ago.
Discussions about the method of acquisition ensued.
Cousin felt that it was my due.
BioMom felt that taking it would be unethical.
Cousin's brothers still didn't belive it existed.
Cousin's mom thought we should offer the current residents some cash in exchange for the birdbath.
The house itself has a rather well-known tragedy associated with it. One that any Omahaian of the early 1970s would be well aware of, were they given a little nudge to remind them. I imagined ringing the doorbell and inquiring after the birdbath, reminding them that I was the one-year-old in the house at the time.
This was a rather manipulative approach, and it also felt quite risky to me. What if they said "No"? Stealing would be an inadequate alternative in the wake of such a rejection.
In the end, Cousin, fortified with some liquid courage, talked me into taking the (ahem) road less traveled.
Under the cover of darkness (and a black shirt that her husband loaned me) we went back to the scene of our childhood and attempted to retreive my mom's birdbath.
We had it all worked out -- park the car far away. . . Enter through the back yard neighbor's. . . replace the birdbath with a newer version.
We did not expect the friendly, but loquacious dog.
No steaks or large bones were in sight.
In the end, we got away only with the top portion.
Biomom's response: YOU'VE GOT TO GO BACK AND GET THE BASE!
I unloaded it from the car yesterday and, in all of it's old, cracked glory, I am in love with it, and feel like I have a piece of my mom here with me in Minnesota.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Academic Freedom?
If we were in person, I'd tell you this story, and put the Academic Freedom part in, what Dane Cook calls "rock star quotes".
I swiped the link from Dooce's husband, but it's good. . . Well, interesting. . . No, scary. . . No, telling. . . in any case:
BYU professor looses job for disagreeing with the Mormon Church's recent gay marriage amendment.
What should we call that, instead of getting "Dooced" (neologism: to be "dooced" is to lose your job as a result of something you wrote in an online journal)?
Maybe he got "Goosed"? (Substitute G from Gay for the D in Dooced).
We're still here in Red-State-ville.
It has been absolutely lovely. Big has been a trooper, sleeping like he's never slept in his life. I think it's the big-sky fresh air, the plethora of crazy kids, and the non-stop playing we've been doing.
Today, there was a moment when all four kids currently en-residence were simultaneously asleep!
Ahhhhhhh!
I swiped the link from Dooce's husband, but it's good. . . Well, interesting. . . No, scary. . . No, telling. . . in any case:
BYU professor looses job for disagreeing with the Mormon Church's recent gay marriage amendment.
What should we call that, instead of getting "Dooced" (neologism: to be "dooced" is to lose your job as a result of something you wrote in an online journal)?
Maybe he got "Goosed"? (Substitute G from Gay for the D in Dooced).
We're still here in Red-State-ville.
It has been absolutely lovely. Big has been a trooper, sleeping like he's never slept in his life. I think it's the big-sky fresh air, the plethora of crazy kids, and the non-stop playing we've been doing.
Today, there was a moment when all four kids currently en-residence were simultaneously asleep!
Ahhhhhhh!
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