The REAL Birthday Weekend

This weekend was Rowan's real birthday which the 4 of us celebrated at the cottage. That our kids get something like three birthdays each is nuts, but this is how we subdivide our resources (aka time).

While I like all of the birthday elements of the triumvirate, the us-alone ones are special because they are far more subdued, simple, and free of the stress that follows you when you've got people to entertain, or at the least, feed. The weather was not very good during the morning with intermittent showers blotting out the view of the lake every once in a while. This, however, didn't stop Bronson from scrambling outside in between spats and hunting the poor frogs and salamanders that don't seem to know any better, even after two summers. Maybe they don't mind? Here are some pictures of frogs looking pretty happy, and kids looking pretty pleased with themselves:

Once the weather cleared we took our customary trip down to the water to do some off-the-dock fishing and swimming. The water levels have declined enough that I'm no longer prepared to dive in, even from the deeper end of the dock. I'm fairly certain I wouldn't Bob's Lake Bonk myself on the bottom, but I'm also not convinced there would be much pay-off to diving in either. Regardless, we did do some under-the-dock swimming. Rowan even practiced some under-water swims under the protection of the dock (protection from what, I wouldn't know ... maybe that little green turtle?). Bronson, too, wanted to do some life-jacket free underwater swimming, which he undertook in genuine Porky freestyle by clambering down the low-end dock post into the water where he polled himself below the surface to wave at me. I dare say that the cottage has made them more bold and intrepid than they might have otherwise been if we stayed land-locked at home or at the city beaches.

We also caught our very first pickerel in years of fishing the lake. This is it after I Bob's Lake Bonked it:

I would have liked to call him "Ned". He was tasty ... or she was tasty ... it was tasty. That should do.

We left late Saturday so that Rowan would be able to make his first hockey practice ... but that is most assuredly a story for another time.

The Wool in his Pants

A few days ago, while Boober was at home with me due to an illness (his, not mine) and working away in the office at one of his "creations" (which always come out looking like tamed chaos) he walked up to my chair and asked: "You know why I have wool in my pants?". I said, "No Boober, why?". "Because it makes me feel comfy".

Some take delight ...

Some take delight in the carriage a-rollin', others take delight in fishing and boating, I take delight in the order of the matrices, summation, subtraction and the describing the algorithm of production; Musha rig um du rum da.

So yes, I take delight in describing how to perform the product of two matrices to a computer. Why? Who knows. Maybe there was some method to the three-pack-a-day cigarette smoking habit my mother dutifully maintained while I quickened (and quite likely, coughed) in the womb. Perchance it was influenced by my father's dramatic discovery that he could fix the spray nozzle of the garden hose with a wedge of scrap 2x4. Perhaps it was all the time I spent, late at night with a flash light under the sheets, reading the exploits of he Hardy Boys (which I have since re-read). Perhaps it is none of these things, but the whim of chance that has provided me a natural curiosity for the nerdy. It's not as though the calculation of the product of two matrices is likely to establish me as a contender for any sort of Nobel prize, but there is a distinct pleasure in being able to think through, solve, and describe to a computer, some problem, and it happens that, of late, I have been thinking about algebra, and in particular matrices, their operations and properties.

It's just plain fun. In any case, here it is:

1. given an mxn matrix (call it A), and
2. given an nxp matrix (call it B)
3. produce a mxp matrix (call it C)

for i in 0 .. m begin
   for j in 0 .. p begin
      Ci,j = 0
      for k in 0 .. n begin
         Ci,j = Ci,j + Ai,k x Bk,j
      end
   end
end

It took me the greater part of a day to get that right. That may not sound like much, but it is, though in defense of my capabilities, I was working on it but intermittently.

It's a lot more fun than it sounds.

Next: the determinant. I understand what needs to be done ... now to do it.

The End is Nigh

It's not just that because I love my children that I think they are the awesomest (a neologism which Firefox refuses to accept). Bronson (surprisingly, and yet, not) having decided he's tired of life in a diaper (pronounced "deeper") has chosen to convey to us, in terms easily understood by his mommy and daddy, that he's quite ready to use the potty, or as we no longer have a potty in the house, the toilet with a seat to accommodate his big fat bum. He says, "pee on" which means, "take me to the toilet so I can amaze you with my big-boy peeing abilities". It has now gotten so that he does not even dribble in his diaper (pronounced "deeper"), nor would he be pooping in it but for the condition of his tummy, which has not been so fine these past 4 days. While Jen had planned to commence toilet-training while she was home over the Christmas (and inter-career) break, it's evident that Porky became tired of waiting for his laggard parents to catch up to him.

Let us not forget The Amazing Booberinni, who was toilet-trained in one day.

The end of the diaper (pronounced "deeper") is nigh.

Cannot leave his digger

Nature or nurture? If I play heavy-metal music frequently and loudly, should not my 3 year-old come to love heavy metal? If nurture were the dominant determinant of behaviour in his life, then undoubtedly it would. I have video evidence confirming to what lengths I have gone to cultivate an appreciation for growling vocals, speed pedal work, and thrashing guitar riffs. I have introduced him to Arch Enemy, In Flames, Killswitch Engage and Amon Armath and All That Remains. After a 9 month strict diet of metal one might expect synapses to have formed, and subsequently the serotonin to flow in grand quantities whenever he hears metal. Rather, though, he has a particular affinity for Johnny Cash and The Almanac Singers. Johnny Cash was dead before Boober was born, and The Almanac Singers had disbanded before even my father was born.

No explanation is required for how I came to listen to Johnny Cash's music. He was impossible to avoid as I was growing up, and yet I did, because my musical interests were greatly influenced by my cousins who listened to heavy metal. Before that, however, I had already come to appreciate and love as diverse music as Survivor, Gordon Lightfoot, classical music, and The Smurfs - I was young. How I came to be acquainted with The Almanac Singers is a story now buried in the haze of time. It was no doubt accidental, and most likely involved stealing music from over the Internet - no one lost royalties that I am aware of.

I still love listening to both in equal measure as with heavy metal music. Rowan, despite all my efforts to indoctrinate him when he was young and vulnerable, has decided he hates heavy metal, and loves Johnny Cash and The Almanac Singers. Well, he loves Ring of Fire and When The Man Comes Around by Johnny Cash, and he loves The Strange Death of John Doe and Billy Boy (which he calls "Charming Billy") from The Almanac Singers.

I'm not writing this to tell you about his predilection for guitar and vocal centred music, but to sing the praises of his imagination. One line from Billy Boy goes, "He's a young boy / And cannot leave his mother" which Rowan has decided is more appropriately sung as, "He's a young boy / And cannot leave his digger". His "digger"? The child's fixation on construction vehicles and toys so infects his every thought that he graps the humour and apropos exchange of the word "digger" for "mother". He cracks me up daily ... he causes me to snap daily, but that's an entirely other series of long and whiny posts.

Anyway, it's nature, because his mother loves guitar and vocal centred music.

Untitled [2001]

I know that thou hast questions,
And doubts and fears as well,
'bout myself and my intentions
That I pray that I might quell.

For in the past I oft did say
Unkindly words to one so dear,
Pushed thee and thy love away
And shut up my heart in fear.

Now I would tell thee my story
To give some indication,
Rather then simply "I am sorry"
I'll explain my inclination

...

To protect myself from rejection
Built up a wall impenetrable
And poisoned all with an injection
Of caustic words deplorable.

When I was but a little boy
A little's boys joy did I find
In nature and in science books -
Not in the fashions of the time!

'Tis a strange thing, a child who shuns
The interests of his little peers
Lives in a world, population one -
'Twas said he was a little queer!

As time wore on, things little changed
Unanchored still in the real world
He longed for company, and pained
Himself to find there was no girl.

Who suited him, or knew that he
Dreamt dreams of gold not glittering;
But golden sunlight urging gentl'y
The tentative buds in early spring.

So anger raged and hate was born.
Less, and less he loved the world
Lost in anger, his hope forlorn,
In anger's fiercest tempest whirled.

He learned to find the smallest chinks
In others' armour, and so excelled
At finding all the weaker links
In others' selves.  How he revelled!

He had a weapon so well concealed,
Behind smiles and jesting words that he
With wondrous skill and precision wheeled
His truncheon; grinning amicably.

As time wore on he found that there
Was little pleasure in feeling scorn;
Gave up his anger, left it lying there,
A little lighter his burden borne.

They say that time heels all wounds
But there are wounds that run so deep
'Tis difficult to shut up all the rooms
Lock the doors, put the demons to sleep.

...

There's much more to tell but I believe
'Tis enough for now that you have read
All I've written and I hope received
Some solace from your current dread.

Know, too, that you have given one
So lost, a clearer path to travel;
And love, green fields in which to run,
And wondrous myst'ries still to unravel.

Thou should'st not doubt my sincerity
For truly I do love thee well.
I've hopes and dreams to share with thee
And softer words to write and tell.

He Digs, He Digs!

To say, only, that The Boober likes to dig - to Scoop and Dump in his parlance - is to miss, entirely, the meaning of this sublime act. He does not just "dig", he becomes A Digger, melding himself to whatever implement he currently feels inspired to utilize. His Digging is a quest; not simply for a wider, deeper, hole, but for a sense of meaning in a rather scatter-shot world of activities unconnected to anything meaningful. He gets down on his belly, in his clean hoodie and jeans, and digs elementally with his hands until his body melds with the soft earth. He squats close to the ground in his camouflage-patterned pants and digs with a green, then a red, shovel; dirt flying in every direction it shouldn't. He clambers on top of his yellow excavator hunches forward until the thing tips forward across its center of gravity and pitches itself into the hole du jour, and grips both levers to control both the action of the scoop and elevation of the boom. He immerses himself so completely in the act of Digging, that the world melts away as completely if he were in a deep state of meditation; which, may, in fact, not be so far from the actuality of the thing. Meditation is about clearing out of the mind of all thoughts but the focus of the meditation; often this is focused on the breath, the Om, but in the case of The Boober, the focus is the ever increasing volume of the hole, and the ever increasing volume of the dirt mound that surrounds it. It is impossible to watch him and not be transported a calm place. He is supremely happy in this place of his own construction, and it is joy incarnate to watch him. Left to follow his heart, he would sit there at his hole until the darkness made it impossible to continue, sleep swept over and consumed him wholly, or Daddy had the ugly task of taking him in for dinner.