A funny

Bringing the twins home from school yesterday, I observed that a defunct cafe was soon to become an IHOP. Asked whether they knew “IHOP” stands for, one replied, “Pancakes!” while the other replied “Pancake house.” The best part of the conversation continued something like this...

Me: “It stands for ‘International House of Pancakes.’”

Maddie: “Yeah, we had some once and they had pretty good pancakes.”

Me: “Well, they’d better have pretty good pancakes if they have ‘pancake’ in their name.”

Lydia: “Heh, Bob Pancake.”

Misplaced modifiers

From The Electric New Paper via Drudge Report

THEY were jetting off for a holiday in Kingston, Jamaica, and the drinks flowed freely during the ten-hour flight.

Intoxicated, the couple, who were seated in business class, decided to submit their membership for the 'mile-high club' in one of the toilets.

But the British Airways flight staff became suspicious after hearing cries of passion from the loo, and the randy couple was ordered to stop and return to their seats.

Randy quickly turned into angry.

Stunned passengers watched in horror as the couple fought with flight staff.

A passenger told The Sun: 'They were asked politely to return to their seats but went ballistic. They were shouting vile abuse and spitting at staff.'

Another said: 'The captain tried to calm them down but they were just as abusive to him.'

And despite being restrained with plastic handcuffs, the pilot decided he had no choice but to divert the 777 jet to Bermuda.

This gets me into quite a lather. How could The Electric New Paper see fit to print this? Just why was the pilot restrained with plastic handcuffs? It seems there was more going on aboard this jumbo jet than The Electric New Paper reports. Give us the full story!

“Foe of Abortion”

Today’s New York Times features an article whose headline refers to Senator Sam Brownback of Kansas as a ”foe of abortion.” Interesting choice of words. Would the Times be willing to call Arlen Specter, Charles Schumer, Edward Kennedy, Richard Durbin, and the like “friends of abortion”?

Pictured above is our son, Evan. Of course, it’s a good thing we didn’t choose to have him or any of his sisters slaughtered. On the other hand, had we done so, we would have enjoyed full sanction of the government, where this grisly practice is, perversely, “settled law,” “the Law of the Land,” and, most chilling, a “freedom.”

Father of Four

As many know, Kristi and I had our fourth child and first boy, Evan Ross, at 5:13 CDT on August 29, 2005. At birth, he weighed 6 pounds 14 ounces and measured 19.5 inches long. As of this past Monday, he weighs nearly 7 pounds 10 ounces, and his doctor feels he has turned the corner on gaining weight. He has even smiled for us on rare occasions—something not expected until at least six weeks of age.

Our loss of Emily is still hard to bear; if she were alive today, she would be four and a half, and she'd be the most doting sister, as she loved everyone, especially babies. The emotional challenges of having another child are difficult, though I’m not sure that maintaining the surviving family would have been any less difficult. Emily was and is a wonderful spirit whose love and joy compelled us to have other children when she was here, and Evan’s sweetness suggests we made a good decision.

Father of Three

I’ve never been sure what the etiquette is on this, but as I was getting a haircut from my childhood barber recently, the issue came up again. He asked about the kids, and upon hearing that our boy is due in August, he asked, “So, this makes three for you again?” This rhetoric always bothers me, as do notions that we’re somehow replacing Emily.

Not sure how to respond, I said that our boy will be our fourth child. As of the moment, despite the loss of our daughter, I’m still a father of three. By August, if the pregnancy is successful, I’ll be a father of four. Do our twin daughters have only one sister each? Does everything reset to the way it was before the youngest child of a family passes away? Are we expected to pretend as though Emily never existed? Must we look at our family the way an accountant would?

Now we’ve lost Kristi’s mom, our childcare provider and, more important, the grandma our girls were very close to. One of Kristi’s aunts, in attempting to console her, said “At least you still have your dad.” Later, she declared that our twins wouldn't remember Emily, because they were five when we lost Emily, and when this omniscient aunt was five, her father passed away, and she has no memory of him. That’s quite a sad commentary on her family, given that she and her siblings should have noticed his absence for all the years hence.

When we lose the ones we love, their absence is still felt, and their presence is never forgotten.

ACT Writing Test

ACT, Inc., rolled out an optional writing component this past February. Some schools require it, some recommend it, and some say “Not Needed.” What’s most peculiar about the Writing Test is how it’s scored: both apart from everything else—as a score ranging from 2 to 12, inclusive—and then merged with the English score for a separate English/Writing score.

What is the point of this, exactly? Comparable exams featuring a separately scored writing component—including the GMAT and GRE—don’t make a fuss about the scores, using them solely to indicate whether students can write at least adequately. Since the ACT Writing Test score will not factor into the Composite score, having two separate scores for Writing seems like puffery.

e-Minister vs. iMinister

My wife has a cousin who received ordination online and later performed a wedding here in Belleville for his brother. While returning from a different wedding in Athens, Georgia, my brother, sister-in-law, wife, and I discussed this, musing about what one could call such a member of the cloth. I suggested e-minister, which prompted much laughter among our travel-weary group.

On reflection, though, I feel iMinister may be a better fit. Imagine such a clergyman saying it: it sounds like an indicative statement.

“What do you do?”
“I’m an iMinister.”
“A what?”
“You know—iMinister!”

Either one would make for an interesting job description on a business card or web page. Does one sound funnier? If so, which one? After gathering sufficient commentary from sufficient contributors, I’d like to submit either or both of these to the neologism departments of the Oxford English Dictionary, the American Heritage Dictionary, and Webster’s Third New International Dictionary.

Ambitious? Perhaps. Necessary? Without question.

Ultrasound

On the morning of April 6, Kristi and I went to the Center for Advanced Medicine at Barnes-Jewish Hospital for the first ultrasound of our third pregnancy and fourth child. Everything checked out, and in the third week of August, we’re expecting a baby boy.

During the ultrasound, the sonographer, getting a lateral view of the left abdomen and hip, noted a protuberance below the waist and began to type ‘XY’ onto the view, saying “It's sorta hard to disguise that,” to which I responded “I’ve been there.” Despite the large smirk that spanned her face, she managed to maintain a professional mien.

The worst excesses of self-preservation

It’s hard to know where to begin with this one. Today’s New York Daily News reports that a teacher, ironically named Wayne Brightly, gave a formerly homeless man $2 and a strong dose of intimidation to take the state teachers’ exam after Brightly had failed the test numerous times. Only after the stand-in, who has Asperger’s syndrome, scored very highly did officials become suspicious of the discrepancy.

Although no teacher or student will speak in Brightly’s defense, who else but the teachers’ union steps forward to claim that the school board has insufficient safeguards in place to prevent such teachers from obtaining certification by fraud. The union’s answer? Let Brightly keep his job. Outside the dystopia of the monopolistic public education “system” and an environment where empty credentialism thrives in anti-competitive unions, such a teacher would be rightly handed his sorry ass.

Emily’s fourth birthday

Today marks the day Emily would have turned four years old.

At the start of this week, well meaning people asked Kristi whether this has been a tough week. Every day is tough, and having to explain this at work only makes coping more difficult. The notion that we can confine this grief—to the day Emily was born, to the anniversary of her passing, and to holidays—is untenable.

Another mother, whose only son died of cancer, stopped by this morning to deliver presents. Pointing skyward, she remarked that “we have a lot of friends up there,” to which I replied, “We do.” She continued, “We’re going to need some help from them…” to which I replied that I don't count on any help from above, that I think it’s just a bill of goods.

The notion that we can gain by asking for help from above—from those who have gone before us, from Mother Mary, from Jesus, or from God “Almighty” Himself—is an illusion shattered since our prayers for Emily to continue living here, with us, went either unanswered or answered tacitly in the negative. How will knowingly lying to ourselves comfort us?

Today, the unexpected visit prompted tears. Time is too long for those who grieve.

Wherever you are, happy birthday, Emily Jane Nowels.

Love,

Daddy

Lost Tribe

To my chagrin, I’ve lost track of many of the friends and acquaintences I made during my two years at Millsaps College, particularly the guys in cube B1 at Galloway Hall, several of Allen Scarboro’s disciples in the sociology department, and my fellow English majors and creative writing students. Though I’ve lost touch, I value the friendships I made at Millsaps. If any of you happen to visit this site, I invite you to drop me a note; I’d be delighted to hear from you.

Cordially,

Ross

Heartbeat

Kristi and I went to her doctor today to hear our fourth child’s heartbeat, which clocked in at about 145 beats per minute. The medical student attending was able to locate it rather quickly. Stay tuned for the ultrasound.

Ross

Vandals

As I was pulling out of my parking spot to head out for my afternoon appointments today, the rear window of my car crumbled in. Sometime in the middle of the night last night, some guys had come through the neighborhood to smash car windows. Kristi was awake around that time, but she was unaware of what awoke her. She heard a car tearing down our street without stopping, despite there being a stop sign along the street about every block or two.

Naturally, I reported the damage to the police. The officer who took the report informed me that he'd taken three other reports of smashed windows a block east of us. It's a relatively inexpensive repair, but a major annoyance: there's shattered glass all over the twins' car seats; I canceled all of my appointments today for fear of getting rain in the car and acting like an unbearable grump in front of my students; and I gave up a day's worth of income in the bargain. We're supposed to have rain showers tomorrow morning.

I suppose this was great sport for the obtuse cretins who did it during their time off from their fast food careers. Brilliant, guys. What cowards.

“Expecting”

Kristi and I are expecting our fourth child. To some, it’s cause for exuberance; to others, a sign that we’re “moving on” from or “getting over” Emily’s cruel, untimely death. For my part, I want to be glad that a new arrival is coming, but it’s all caught up in the knowledge that we can’t take anyone in our lives for granted, and that others will read this pregnancy as evidence that we’re filling, or paving over, the hole that Emily’s death left in our lives.

Emily was such a wonderful child that, during her life, Kristi and I talked a lot about having another child. Since Emily’s death last year, part of me feels as though we're betraying her significance in our lives by having other children. And yet, people who know what has happened are still inappropriately buoyant about it: “That’s neat,” “That’s great,” “That’s wonderful!” It’s as though they’re loath to acknowledge that Emily existed at all, as though we’re dealing not with a personal loss so much as the attrition that happens in a small company. To these I stress, no child can replace Emily. Get a clue.

I suppose that, for most of us who have lost children, “expecting” is an alienating concept. Knowing what we know, what may we reasonably expect? Why should we have faith? At this point, I see no reason. Of course, pragmatically, religion provides some in society the moral guidance they might otherwise lack, while faith may give some broader meaning to their lives. But until you've experienced the loss of a child, don't come to me with supposed words of wisdom. I’ve given up all delusions that God answers prayers or cares about us mortals during our time on Earth. To those who tell me prayer is comforting, imagine your daughter falling ill. Imagine your daughter losing her heartbeat. Imagine praying for divine intervention. And then imagine a doctor pronouncing your daughter dead. To these I stress, Don’t speak of prayers and blessings, of faith and God. You know not what you say. Platitudes are comfort only for the ignorant.

In the past year, people who have, near as I can tell, wanted to comfort themselves as least as much as us have offered banalities such as “God wanted her,” “God knows best,” “She’s in a better place,” “God needed an angel,” and “She’s an angel now.” Does this mean God gives sweet little girls influenza and robs them from their loving mothers through the miracle of cardiac arrest? Does this mean God gave Emily the flu to spare her a courageous battle with some future illness, and to spare us the pleasure of her presence in our lives? To provide all who knew and loved her an invaluable life lesson? To underscore the notion that "God works in mysterious ways"? To deny that Emily was an angel on Earth? If so, then God is a brute. And if he does nothing to help, as the ongoing tsunami tragedies suggest, he’s of no use at all. The best we can do is try not to worry.

Hoping for a healthy, intelligent, kind, beautiful baby, as all of my daughters have been,

Ross