Weekend linkage

"Sneaky exercise." Mine is deep knee bends while cleaning up Ellie's toys . . .

Speaking of exercise, here are some Biblical dance moves. I laughed so hard. My favorite is "Lot's wife."

"If Disney princesses had realistic hair."

Paper and Salt, a delightful blog with recipes from or related to classic authors. Each post includes great stories about these writers and, of course, great food.

And now for lots of articles!

"The Jennifer Epidemic."

Beginning in 1970, Jennifer was the top female baby name in the U.S., a position it would hold for a solid 14 years. The run was mirrored in Canada and, to a lesser extent, in the U.K. All before the Internet, before there was any readily available list of popular baby names from province-to-province or state-to-state. Sure, lots of names drift in and out of popularity; but Jennifer was more than just a common baby name, it was a bona fide trend, a phenomenon.

"Henry VIII's Horticultural Manual Revealed."

Written between 1304 and 1309 by Petrus de Crescentiis, a lawyer from Bologna, the Ruralia Commoda contained advice on how to grow giant leeks, how to produce cherries without pits and growing different coloured figs on the same tree. It tells gardeners that “cucumbers shake with fear at thunder”, while a squash will bear fruit after precisely nine days if planted in the ashes of human bone and watered with oil. To get the tastiest lettuces, the manual recommends planting lettuce seed together with a radish, nasturtium and colewort inside a ball of goat manure.

"President Obama Pushes Pre-K and Free College Because He's Got Jack for K-12."

Institutionalizing children earlier and longer won’t lead to more creativity and innovation, which are the real stimulus of economic growth. Real-world experiences—whether it play when young or entry-level jobs when they’re teens—are being taken off the table while politicians mandate more isolation and testing within the confines of public school.

"No, You're Not More of a Real Mom Because Your House is Messy."

I see women encouraging each other to air their dirty laundry and share the not-so-pretty parts of their lives from time-to-time on social media and I get it. We all just want to know that we’re not alone and that other women and moms out there don’t have it all together either, but the thing is: there's always going to be someone out there who does something better than we do.

"The Passion of Pregnancy."

Privately, we can do better at validating the struggles of the pregnant women we know. Flowing from this, in our public discourse, too, we should begin to validate the difficulty of pregnancy instead of simply enumerating its merits . . . Yes, we have had awful pregnancies. Yes, there were times we wished we weren’t pregnant, but we are very glad we didn’t give up. Maybe the arsenal of pro-life bumper stickers could be fortified with a slogan as simple as “Pregnancy is worth it.”

"Love Looks Like . . . 2:07 AM."

We swore we wouldn’t become those tired ones in the middle of their life, living just a regular sort of life . . . Love would look like this for us forever. Like we were somehow above or better than the minivans and mortgages, the tub scrubbing and sheet washing, like our clock would always be made up of bright mornings and late nights. But here’s the truth: lifelong love is actually most built throughout the hours of the day, all twenty four of them, in the ordinary moments of our humanity.

"Kids, the Holocaust, and 'Inappropriate' Play."

. . . children bring the realities of their world into a fictional context, where it is safe to confront them, to experience them, and to practice ways of dealing with them. Some people fear that violent play creates violent adults, but in reality the opposite is true. Violence in the adult world leads children, quite properly, to play at violence. How else can they prepare themselves emotionally, intellectually, and physically for reality?

Family snippets

Well, I can authoritatively say that 41 weeks is a Very Long Time to incubate a baby. I am ready to see her on the outside. Ironically, waiting has gotten easier as more time passes, because I know that I have less and less time to go: no matter when she comes, I am getting closer to her delivery every day!

Jared is the nicest pregnancy companion imaginable. He cleaned all of our wooden floors for me this week, has procured hamburgers and ice cream on command, and generously supplies shoulder-and-hip rubs to his cranky wife. (He also understands that every evening I go through a "woe is us, this baby will never come" phase and therefore is not alarmed if I suddenly start to cry or mope about.) I'm grateful to have him around so often, rather than working till midnight on the house like last time. Ellie's explosive energy wears me down during the day and I need somebody to take over toddler duty after dinner!

Ellie is starting to understand the concept of color, but does not realize that colors have names unto themselves. Instead, she associates them with particular objects. So a brown crayon is "chocolate," an orange car is "clementine," and white yogurt is "snow." I love seeing how her brain works. She learns at lightning speed, and I don't know how she fits all the information she's cramming into that memory of hers.

Weekend linkage

This one is funny: "Ayn Rand Reviews Children's Movies."

“Old Yeller.” A farm animal ceases to be useful and is disposed of humanely. A valuable lesson for children. Four stars.

From The Economist: "Home of the Unbrave."

Perhaps it's better to be safe than sorry, but one wonders whether we won't become sorry to have made such a fetish of staying safe. In much the same way that dominant firms, jealous of market share, tend to become over-cautious and lose their edge, America the weak-kneed hegemon risks losing the can-do, risk-taking, innovative pioneer spirit that made it the world's dominant economic and military power. Is it worth devoting so much zeal to protecting America's young minds from brain damage if the finest among them wind up too conservative to seek anything but a sure paycheck?

From Forbes: "Architecture Continues to Implode." A sharp look at the self-congratulatory, insular world of high concept architecture and the widening disconnect between elite "experts" and real people.

Here is a neat story: "The Search for Australia's Lost Hospital Ship."

"What Happens To A Woman's Brain When She Becomes a Mother." Or, science can finally confirm what we've known all along! (No really, it's interesting, and these findings also offer the opportunity to help moms and babies who, due to brain damage or chemical imbalances, struggle with post-partum depression or attachment respectively.)

I think I need to make this pie.

Here's a great post on P.G. Wodehouse that is technically part of the LMLD Library Project (good in itself) but ends up rambling far afield, discussing how an obsession with equality or "leveling the playing field" retards children's education by wilting our expectations.

The way I knew this word, and so many others far outside my ken, was of course by reading. And a further irony is that the more energy one spends worrying about testing and whether or not it rewards privilege, the less energy is left for reading and looking up words and thereby righting any inequalities of privilege.

pregnant thoughts

Ellie is upstairs, playing with her favorite Christmas presents: an IKEA kitchen, plus "the works" to accompany it (food! pots! tea set!), and a huge collection of matchbox vehicles. I bet you didn't know that you can make Sportscar and Watermelon Stew. Well, you can if you're Ellie, especially when you're wearing an enormous purple tutu. So here I am downstairs, sitting on my giant exercise ball in an attempt to get Jellybean to swivel in the right direction-- no sunny-side-up deliveries, please. She has a new movement pattern these days. Turn a few perfunctory somersaults around lunchtime, and then wiggle gleefully all night long. This does not bode well for my sleep after she's born.

Christmas is always good but I especially enjoy it while I'm pregnant. The physicality of the Incarnation hit me hard the year I was pregnant with Ellie, and once again this year, when I am even further along. I look down at my enormous belly and wonder how Mary ever made it to Bethlehem. I feel Jellybean's tiny body shove against my diaphragm and wonder how Jesus ever fit His divine glory into such a small package.

During our Christmas Eve service, I was overcome with emotion as I thought about what that holy child's arrival means for my own children: that because He became a baby, my babies have an eternal hope.

no frigate like a book #5

Linked up with Call Her Happy.

1)

A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller

Hard to describe, but I would call this a post-apocalyptic retelling of Western history. After a nuclear holocaust in the 20th century, the survivors include a hardy group of American monks. They preserve the few spared fragments of learning in much the same way that European religious orders protected ancient manuscripts through the medieval era.

Once the nuclear fallout subsides, humanity progresses through recognizable historical stages-- from a rampaging Dark Ages to a politically conniving Enlightenment to a futuristic space age. It's fascinating to see these familiar elements of history recast in new places and with new names, and to wonder if the march of human events really is so inevitable.

They shook hands gingerly, but Dom Paulo knew that it was no token of any truce but only of mutual respect between foes. Perhaps it would never be more.

But why must it all be acted again? The answer was near at hand; there was still the serpent whispering: For God doth know that in what day soever you shall eat thereof, your eyes shall be opened: and you shall be as Gods. The old father of lies was very clever at telling half-truths: How shall you "know" good and evil, until you shall have sampled a little? Taste and be as Gods.

But neither infinite power nor infinite wisdom could bestow godhood upon men. For that there would have to be infinite love as well.

2)

Still Alice by Lisa Genova

A brilliant Harvard psychology professor is diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's. The most unique aspect of this book is the narrative style. While it is told in third-person, we still view things from Alice's perspective, because Genova does not furnish us with any details that Alice herself wouldn't know. For example, as Alice loses her memory, the other characters are referred to with increasingly vague names: we go from reading about "Lydia" to "her youngest daughter" to simply "the actress." If Alice misses something, we do too, and just like her, we have to figure it out later. I thought this was very well done.

At first I did not like Alice. She seemed to personify everything I hate about modern feminism: looking down on young mothers, finding all her worth in her career, believing that she must be self-sufficient at all costs, clinging to a very narrow definition of success. So I thought that I would struggle to sympathize with her as the book went on. However, I got over my initial dislike and enjoyed the story. I was also pleasantly surprised at how her disease shifts her perspective. Alice realizes that in a time of crisis, all she cares about is her family, about their love and loyalty, not accolades from an academic association. (Sadly, her husband-- equally career-driven-- does not seem to share her new perspective and continues to prioritize his work.)

I fear mental disease more than physical, because I worry about losing control and somehow losing my own identity. If my self-awareness and memory melt away, what do I have left? Have I disappeared too? Is my life worth anything anymore? So I liked what Alice had to say:

My yesterdays are disappearing, and my tomorrows are uncertain, so what do I live for? I live for each day. I live in the moment. Some tomorrow soon, I'll forget that I stood before you and gave this speech. But just because I'll forget it some tomorrow doesn't mean that I didn't live every second of it today. I will forget today, but that doesn't mean that today didn't matter.

3)

In the Province of Saints by Thomas O'Malley

I am glad I read this one. (I brought it home from the library and said "I picked this off the shelf because it looked good." Jared peered at the cover and said "No, you picked it because it looked Celtic." Fair point, my love.)

It's got some salty language and it is neither uplifting nor inspirational, but then I don't usually go for inspirational. It's real, and its darkness is the kind worth reading about: presented well, even quite beautifully. Sometimes you need to read about the hardness of life. I think it's best to read about it in a way that makes your life better-- because it makes you reflect on sober truths or gives you a better eye for hope-- not in a way that makes you throw the book across the room and say "well fine, why don't we all kill ourselves then." (This novel is an example of the former way. For an example of the latter way, see #5.)

Summary: this story follows a young Irish boy through adolescence as he deals with a severely ill mother, an absent father, and the various political/social pressures of poor village life in 1970s-80s Ireland. It has strong themes of betrayal and loyalty, especially concerning the conflicting loyalties we may find ourselves sorting through: demands from our family, from our beliefs, from from our history. The protagonist must choose at several points to whom (or to what cause) he will be faithful. He also has the opportunity to compare himself to the older men in his life, many of whom fail to fulfill responsibilities to their families or communities. I thought the ending was very strong, not at all happy-go-lucky, but full of gritty resolve. And I like grit.

I stopped at a grotto to the Virgin that lay nestled in the side of a hill, and I said a prayer for my mother and my father although I knew it would do no good. My words frosted the air. The Goddess's weather-beaten face, worn smooth and soft, shone beatific in the moon glow. Hers was an altar of rowan branches, wildflowers and moss heather, lichen, and pools of bog water, the type of old-contry shrine that once dotted the lanes and hillsides.

Wrapped in thorns yet serene and calm, the Goddess assured me that everything would be all right, if only I believed. But the thing was, though I wanted to believe, I didn't.

4)

Ellis Island and Other Stories by Mark Helprin

Clearly I have no problem repeating authors. If I enjoy one of his books, why stop there? This one is different because it's a slim collection of short stories, not an enormous novel. Overall, I prefer the novels, because his characters are so great that I want them to go on almost-forever. (Actually, I like novels more than short stories, period. It's so nice to slip into a story and sustain that narrative for a week, two weeks, rather than be done with it in thirty minutes.) It might be especially good for a car trip, when-- if you are like me-- there are snacks and rest stops and whiny toddlers to interrupt your reading flow.

5)

And now for something completely different, I will mention The Valley of Amazement by Amy Tan. This one is horrible, so it does not technically belong on a "five favorites" list. Yet here it is! Simply so I can tell you how horrible it is. It is meandering and depressing and full of terrible sex, as one might expect from a novel about Chinese prostitutes. I read half of it and should have stopped much sooner. Please don't bother.