![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Apparently, daddy is no comfort at all after the scary thunder wakes you up. Only mommy can help with that (and she'd better not try handing you off to daddy after that initial cuddle).
I'm not taking it too hard.
I'm not taking it too hard.
Tags:
Through a combination of rolling, rotating, and scooting on her tummy, my sweet little daughter is now capable of repeatedly pulling herself off of the blanket I've put on the floor so she can grab things she's interested in. It's not crawling yet, but I can't just think of her as safely immobile anymore.
On the one hand, I'm a very proud daddy. On the other, boy, I'm going to miss being able to plop her down with some toys and trusting she'd be in pretty much the same place if I went around the corner for a minute.
On the one hand, I'm a very proud daddy. On the other, boy, I'm going to miss being able to plop her down with some toys and trusting she'd be in pretty much the same place if I went around the corner for a minute.
Tags:
My name (including its weird spelling) has been in my family for generations. My father is Walter Steuard Jensen, Jr., son of Walter Steuard Jensen, son of Walter ??? Jensen, son of Steuard Raun Jensen who came to America from Denmark as a teenager. The source of that name has always been a bit of a puzzle, but we've had no way of tracing it further back because the family lost track of its Danish relatives (even their names) years ago. That's always left me a little sad: I've enjoyed connecting with my mother's distant cousins in Sweden, and it would be nice to have something like that on my father's side.
Flash forward to my mother's visit last week. In cleaning out old boxes, she found a letter from one Niels Jensen to his brother in America. The letter talked about all of the surviving siblings back in Denmark (including full names), and a bit of Google searching eventually led me to a definitive match: the family of Rasmus August Jensen (translated here from Danish).
If you look at that list of children, you'll see that there's a distinct lack of Steuards there (by any spelling). But there is a "Søren Ravn Jensen", and a comment in the letter seems to confirm that that was my great-great-grandfather's given name. So apparently I ought to be named Søren! My new theory is that Søren decided at some point that he wanted a more American-sounding name, but when he chose one he wasn't clear on how to spell it. We'll see if this takes us anywhere in the future; it would be fun to see if we could track down any living cousins back in Denmark.
Flash forward to my mother's visit last week. In cleaning out old boxes, she found a letter from one Niels Jensen to his brother in America. The letter talked about all of the surviving siblings back in Denmark (including full names), and a bit of Google searching eventually led me to a definitive match: the family of Rasmus August Jensen (translated here from Danish).
If you look at that list of children, you'll see that there's a distinct lack of Steuards there (by any spelling). But there is a "Søren Ravn Jensen", and a comment in the letter seems to confirm that that was my great-great-grandfather's given name. So apparently I ought to be named Søren! My new theory is that Søren decided at some point that he wanted a more American-sounding name, but when he chose one he wasn't clear on how to spell it. We'll see if this takes us anywhere in the future; it would be fun to see if we could track down any living cousins back in Denmark.
I first heard this song by Tim Minchin last year a bit before Christmas, and it's become one of my favorite songs for the holidays. It's not 100% applicable to me, but it captures a lot of the spirit and emotion that I feel in this season. It's particularly poignant for me since my family has wound up being so scattered about the country in the past few years (and the bits about his daughter are swiftly becoming more meaningful, too). For those listening for the first time, note that the tone (or at least the focus) of the lyrics shifts somewhat about halfway through.
Oh, and in case you're confused about the title, note that Minchin lives in Australia: Christmas tends to look a bit different down there.
Oh, and in case you're confused about the title, note that Minchin lives in Australia: Christmas tends to look a bit different down there.
My mother really, really loves Skype. That's really caught me off guard, because for some reason I've never been very excited by it. So I want to know: do any of you folks use Skype regularly? And can anyone suggest why I might be more hesitant about Skype than I generally am about nifty-sounding new technologies? ('Cause thus far, I haven't come up with any plausible explanation.)
( More background and some possibilities... )
I suspect that (for example) Kim and I would have loved Skype when we were living far apart after college: seeing each others' faces more often would have been wonderful. So why haven't I leapt at the chance to have that same extra closeness with family and friends today?
( More background and some possibilities... )
I suspect that (for example) Kim and I would have loved Skype when we were living far apart after college: seeing each others' faces more often would have been wonderful. So why haven't I leapt at the chance to have that same extra closeness with family and friends today?
Kim's mother has been visiting us this week, and one highlight of her trip was a quick jaunt over to Niagara Falls. She's wanted to visit Canada for years, and Kim and I were glad for the excuse to cross the border again, too. I hadn't been to Niagara for thirteen years and the others hadn't been there at all, so we all enjoyed it a lot.
I'll put a few more pictures behind a cut. ( A few more details to follow... )
One of the less beautiful things about Niagara is its carnival atmosphere. Our hotel was separated from the falls by about three blocks of cheesy attractions like wax museums, "4D" movie theaters (the seats move), and haunted houses. I've copied the picture below from Google Street View to point out Google's attempt to protect web users from Dracula's hypnotic gaze. (Gotta love face recognition software.)
I'll put a few more pictures behind a cut. ( A few more details to follow... )
One of the less beautiful things about Niagara is its carnival atmosphere. Our hotel was separated from the falls by about three blocks of cheesy attractions like wax museums, "4D" movie theaters (the seats move), and haunted houses. I've copied the picture below from Google Street View to point out Google's attempt to protect web users from Dracula's hypnotic gaze. (Gotta love face recognition software.)
Here's a cute little article based in part on my grandfather's experience playing baseball at the Berlin Olympics in the context of the overall Olympic history of the sport. He lived a pretty interesting life.
Yesterday, Kim and I went to her grandfather's 90th birthday party, which was in fact something of a family reunion filled (as usual) with people squinting at each other thinking, "Do I know her?" Not long after getting there, I was chatting with a sixteen year old cousin when we were interrupted by a middle aged relative. She said a few words to him, and then looked at me and asked, "So, is this one of your friends?"
I've gotten surprisingly much of that recently. A week or two ago, I was carded when buying wine at the grocery store. And when I saw Professor Su at a Harvey Mudd event not long ago he exclaimed that I looked younger than I had when I was in his class. I'm torn as to what to think of it. On the one hand, it's pleasant to know that I haven't lost that youthful glow. But on the other, there's always a part of me that thinks, "Hey now! I've got a doctorate in string theory and I'm a professor of physics. Don't I get a little respect?" I guess I'm a bit more attached to that whole "social status" thing than I like to admit. (I was also bit too pleased when I saw the New York Times survey listing the highest status occupations: 1. Doctor, 2. Lawyer, 3. Physicist/Astronomer. I seem to be a little vain after all.)
One of the most interesting aspects of the experience yesterday, though, is the way in which that older relative broke into our conversation. She broke in right in the middle of a sentence, as if her desire to say hello was obviously more important than anything two sixteen-year-olds might be talking about. I don't recall being particularly aware of that behavior when I was younger, but I'm willing to believe that it's common. And that bugs me. I've always felt that as much as possible, kids should be treated just like any other person. As it was, I felt distinctly like I was being treated as an inferior. (The interrupting relative seemed a bit contrite when I introduced myself, but for me that just underscored how little she had respected our conversation before she knew I was an adult.)
On the other hand, there are situations where a clear difference in age and experience is pretty important. My youthful look leaves me uncertain that my students will automatically take me seriously, for example. I'm still working on how to strike the right balance there.
I've gotten surprisingly much of that recently. A week or two ago, I was carded when buying wine at the grocery store. And when I saw Professor Su at a Harvey Mudd event not long ago he exclaimed that I looked younger than I had when I was in his class. I'm torn as to what to think of it. On the one hand, it's pleasant to know that I haven't lost that youthful glow. But on the other, there's always a part of me that thinks, "Hey now! I've got a doctorate in string theory and I'm a professor of physics. Don't I get a little respect?" I guess I'm a bit more attached to that whole "social status" thing than I like to admit. (I was also bit too pleased when I saw the New York Times survey listing the highest status occupations: 1. Doctor, 2. Lawyer, 3. Physicist/Astronomer. I seem to be a little vain after all.)
One of the most interesting aspects of the experience yesterday, though, is the way in which that older relative broke into our conversation. She broke in right in the middle of a sentence, as if her desire to say hello was obviously more important than anything two sixteen-year-olds might be talking about. I don't recall being particularly aware of that behavior when I was younger, but I'm willing to believe that it's common. And that bugs me. I've always felt that as much as possible, kids should be treated just like any other person. As it was, I felt distinctly like I was being treated as an inferior. (The interrupting relative seemed a bit contrite when I introduced myself, but for me that just underscored how little she had respected our conversation before she knew I was an adult.)
On the other hand, there are situations where a clear difference in age and experience is pretty important. My youthful look leaves me uncertain that my students will automatically take me seriously, for example. I'm still working on how to strike the right balance there.
Tags:
Kim and I were shopping at Target this evening, when a woman passing by with her shopping cart paused and asked, "Did you two go to Harvey Mudd?" It was Jeannie (or however she spells it), without whom our dorm rooms in East would have been a disaster (and our laundry would have spent a bit less time nicely folded). We talked a bit; she's working out in Linde these days. The people you meet when you live in Claremont...
[I randomly ran into a great uncle of mine at a local restaurant a few months ago, too. Of course, he lives in Colorado, so that was a little bit more of a surprise.]
[I randomly ran into a great uncle of mine at a local restaurant a few months ago, too. Of course, he lives in Colorado, so that was a little bit more of a surprise.]