Please, whoever dispenses days, take this one back. I’m not satisfied.

In fact it started yesterday afternoon when Prima went to the dentist and I was as nervous as if it was me. When she came back with a clean bill of dental health, smug and loud, I was still high on adrenaline. Choir practice didn’t help much —if anything it makes me more hyper; and this was a good one— and I was too awake to go to bed, so I went to bed late —my other half is away to Brussels for the Libre Graphics Meeting— and slept badly, and had nightmares about Prima’s SO breaking up with her and nobody bringing any friends home because I was so weird and scary. (Neither of which is in fact true, of course, as is the way of nightmares.)

Read more ...

(i.e. what I was about to write before I got distracted by cause-of-death statistics)

News happens because it’s unusual. You don’t get headlines of “10-year-old cycles to school successfully” or “Babysitter rocks infant to sleep” or “Girl not abused in fencing practice” (well, except by a bunch of people about her own age, consensually, with sabres). This is not news. News is “10-year-old hit by car on way to school” or “Babysitter shakes infant to death” or “Girl abused by fencing master”.

That person X does something unusual (and therefore newsworthy) to person Y doesn’t make it more likely that it will happen to me, or you, or any of our children. Especially not if person X has been caught for doing whatever they did. If anything, that makes it marginally less likely because there’s one fewer person running free who would be inclined to do this thing to someone. Most people don’t make the headlines; most things that happen in the world aren’t news.

See, that’s why I don’t let myself be scared by news items.

In 2008 in the Netherlands 102 people aged 10 to 15 died: 3 of infectious diseases, 25 of various kinds of cancer, 3 of metabolic diseases, 5 of mental illness, 6 of diseases of the nervous system, 14 of heart disease, 1 of pneumonia, 1 of asthma, 3 of stomach or liver disease, 1 of kidney failure, 6 of “unknown or incompletely described causes”, 17 in traffic accidents, 5 by suicide, 1 by murder or manslaughter and 1 of “other external causes”.

Again: 1 out of the 102 was murdered. And that’s only the 10 to 15 age bracket, in which most people don’t die at all.

Read more ...

Yesterday morning, as I was putting groceries in my bike bags outside the supermarket, I caught myself singing along to In the Bleak Midwinter coming from the muzak speakers. The muzak at that shopping mall is mostly “easy-listening classics” — not so easy for me, because I know most of the music and I keep waiting for the twist, the surprise, in every piece that they’ve carefully edited out to make it suitable for muzak. But never mind about that.

Read more ...

Just after nine in the morning, nasty slushy weather, around freezing. As I come out of the supermarket with a box of groceries and am about to put it in my bike bag a small woman wheeling a shiny blue bike speaks to me.

Small woman: Excuse me, do you know whether the bike lanes are clear?

Me: Well, I used the main lane, I didn’t dare risk the bike lanes.

Small woman: What about the thoroughfares? Did they salt them?

Me: I’m sure they salted [road A] because that’s the way I came, but not the bike lanes. (In fact, an hour and a half earlier, when I had almost reached the swimming pool, I was overtaken by a huffing and grunting municipal snow-plough which not only swept and salted the main lane of the road but also threw any snow that was in its way on to the bike lane; no wonder it was impenetrable. But I didn’t tell the small woman that, because she clearly didn’t listen.)

Small woman: What about [road B]?

Me: I only saw the first part of that at the roundabout, but it was clear all right.

Small woman: As far as [apartment complex about a mile up that road]?

Me: I don’t know, I didn’t pass that way, I turned right at the roundabout. But the part I could see looked completely clear to me.

Small woman: You didn’t pass that way?

Me: No, I didn’t go everywhere!

Small woman: (genuinely surprised, it seems) You didn’t? (thinks) I was thinking of taking the bus instead.

Me: Yes, that’s a good idea, take the bus by all means!

Small woman: Oh, thank you, thank you!

I really shouldn’t read the supermarket magazine, Allerhande, because it doesn’t fail to make me shake my head in vexation.

Read more ...

At the supermarket yesterday: a girl of about seven, all pink frills and pigtails. She was carrying something that looked like a digger made of construction kit and tried frantically to interest her mother in it: “look what I’ve made!” The mother kept making don’t-bother-me noises and finally killed the daughter’s enthusiasm completely with “That’s not a toy for girls, anyway!”

Grr.

I was tempted to Say Something but I didn’t trust my post-cold voice. (Also, I’m really a coward in that sort of thing, especially when I don’t have the girls with me to be brave in front of.) I’ve always thought of construction kit as a particularly gender-neutral toy, but then I grew up building Lego houses with my father. And for my fourth birthday, I asked for and got a sand lorry. It had a yellow cab and a red tilting skip and I remember it as whopping big, but that’s from a four-year-old’s perspective, of course.

I never attempted to force gender-neutrality on my girls— except avoiding pink like the plague when they were small. When they wanted girl things, they got girl things. (But also lots of Legos!) Nowadays they buy their own girl things, wear makeup, have school planners with frills and lace, but they’ll never be told (at least not by us) that something is not for girls. Even if they aren’t gonna be engineers.

In a way I wish it had been closer to Ada Lovelace Day so I could have interviewed the little engineer and taken pictures of her digger, but I don’t know how I could have explained it to her mother. I just hope she’ll be strong enough to stand up to the world, and not give up geekiness out of frustration.

Click the picture or this caption to see the full size scan. Names and signatures obscured to protect the guilty as well as the innocent.

Prima brought home a note from the chemistry teacher, asking our permission for her to taste the beer she brewed in class. Sensible (though slight overkill), as almost everyone in that class is under 16, the legal beer-drinking age, and some parents might object.

The wording of the note, on the other hand… I said “it makes me want to take a red pen to it!” and Prima not only encouraged me, but suggested that I blog about it, too. (The 1 out of 10 mark and some of the punctuation are hers.)

On hindsight, I should probably have done it completely by the book, but I was having far too much fun scribbling “Number doesn’t match” (twice) and “Write out abbreviation” (twice), correcting run-on sentences and marking a buzz-phrase as “woolly”. Two things stood out even more than the rest of the mess: “The last subject of this school-year in chemistry had as its subject…” and “We ask your permission, by completing the form below, that your son or daughter [tastes the beer (s)he brewed]”. Who is completing the form? Apparently ‘we’, the sender of the letter, not ‘you’, the parent-or-guardian. And I couldn’t resist taking the red pen to the form itself: I don’t want my daughter to have to taste the result of his experiment.

If the teacher objects to the markup, Prima will tell him that I’m a professional editor and I’ll gladly offer my further services. I know that it’s not a science teacher’s job to produce great literature, but I think they do have an obligation to write adequate Dutch. When I complained to another science teacher last year about a syllabus, she said “I’m not responsible for that one, thank God”, with a grin that suggested that she’d read it and shaken her head over it.

I intend to rewrite the note completely— that’s why I scanned it in the first place, before Prima suggested blogging.

All of the above, I think. Also indignant.

European elections aren’t supposed to be about national issues, but of course many people vote as if they are. And many people haven’t been voting with their head, or their heart, but with their underbelly and their knees. Perhaps being upset about the results is also a kneejerk reaction, but so be it.

Read more ...

They’re in no particular order, and I may think of more, but these are the ones that come to mind immediately.

Read more ...