The brain behind politics

With the upcoming elections in the Netherlands, our craving for polls is on the rise again. As Dutch people very well know, we can be very good with polls although the final outcome is usually completely unrelated to the outcomes of the polls. What's more, even if the polls manage to get it right, it doesn't tell us much about who's actually going to lead our country, as the political structure in The Netherlands is such that winning doesn't automatically mean you're in.

As a Dutch voter who lives abroad, I am one of the lucky few who already got to vote before all the debates even got started. This doesn't matter, since the debates don't really add to my knowledge or help in my decision making process anyway. Politicians often go after the easy catch, and put up a great act of being indignant of their opponents choices and ideas, when they might in fact have acted on those very same ideas when they were in charge of our country. That aside, being able to vote for the political party of my choice is a precious right, which I will exercise even if it means having to look my kids' red pencil for half an hour, or trying to figure out how to refold the paper in such a way that my choice doesn't show. Because an absence of red markings or a wrong fold means your vote is out.

But to the point now. While browsing for information on an upcoming column about the advances in Neuroscience as related to psychiatric diagnoses, I found an interesting article related to voting. The research used fMRI to reveal specific brain activity in swing voters upon showing images and video clips of possible presidential candidates for the US elections of 2008. A short recap of some of their noteworthy conclusions:

Hillary Clinton produced mixed emotions in voters who didn't really take a liking to her. Apparently, although they stated they didn't like her, their brain activity showed they had some difficulty making up their mind (or brain in this case). For Mitt Romney, the initial results were more clear cut. Upon being showed a picture of Mitt, subjects showed high levels of activity in the amygdala, a brain structure related to anxiety (as stated in the article). However, after watching a snippet on him performing in public, the activity in the amygdala died out. Apparently, the subjects found Mitt to be harmless after all. As for Barack Obama, he just didn't sparkle much of anything in the subjects' brain...

Knowing the outcome of the 2008 elections, it doesn't take a brainiac to figure out that the described research, although highly entertaining, doesn't really add up. That is because, next to design issues such as sample size and background factors of the subjects, some alternative explanations weren't explored.

For instance, it might have been that people watching Hillary Clinton were simply contemplating the difficult decision between their desire to want to punch the dear woman in the face, or yell profanities. Or, a slightly more feasible hypothesis, that they simply didn't know whether they should cut her some slack because of her husband's little slip-up (remember Monica) or judge her solely on the basis of her political ideas. Concerning the results of Mitt Romney, the researchers kind of left out some of the other functions of the amygdala. Because although involved in anxiety (and anger), the amygdala is also related to, yes, pleasure. Whether it be the consequence of him having five children or simply his good looks, it could be that the subjects actually took a fancy to dear ol'Mitt. The subsequent decline in activity might then be explained as the result of him found lacking when seen in action. And do I even need to go into the results of Barack Obama, who might not have been the cause of any peaks in the brain but who did manage to peak in the election?

So, what can we learn from all this? We simply do not know enough of our brains yet to come to any definite conclusions between specific brain activity and behavior. Neuroscience is interesting and definitely deserves our further attention as a way of understanding our behavior (and behavior problems), however, we do need to be careful as to the conclusions we draw based on fMRI research. After all, if it shows that even dead salmons contemplate the emotions of people..

Big Questions for a little brain

Lucas has recently started to ask the Big questions. And whereas some children start relatively small and ease into it, Lucas would not have been Lucas if he would follow such a pathway. Hís first Big question was this: "Zijn tomaten nou fruit of groente?" (Is a tomato a kind of fruit or a vegetable?).
Now, I can deal with difficult questions, but unfortunately his need for answers is not easily met. For example, concerning the extinction of dinosaurs, he's less than happy to find out that scientists do not have a definite answer as of yet. He keeps pressing me for information, as according to him, I must know more. "Nee mama, jij moet meer vertellen." "Jij weet het wél." (No mommy, you have to tell me more. You dó know). One of my solutions to this is to ask him what he thinks. So, let it be known that a moon fell on earth and killed all dinosaurs. Also, tomatoes are a fruit, and baby's are born through your belly button, which hurts, but only for a second. Just thought I'd share the answers to Lucas' Life Questions with you.

With this in mind, I remembered an old poem I once wrote. On occasion, Lucas is having monster nightmares, and recently he wondered why mommy and daddy get to sleep together, whereas he had to sleep all alone.

Monsters

Mam zegt dat monsters niet bestaan,
maar hoe weet zij dat nou?
Als ze mijn kamer binnenkomt, verdwijnen ze heel gauw.
Ze springen in de kasten,
en laden bovendien.
Ze laten niets meer van zich horen, laten zich niet zien.
Totdat ze me een kusje geeft,
en weer naar papa gaat,
dan komen ze tevoorschijn, en worden heel erg kwaad.
Nee, papa heeft maar geluk,
dat mama bij hem ligt.
Bij hem zijn kasten werk'lijk leeg en blijven laden dicht.

The Stairmaster: mastering the stairs

I've started training at the YMCA recently. I must say I am close to getting addicted to my workouts. Not in the least because they have absolutely everything there: I can choose an infinite number of interesting workouts, I don't need to take towels or drinks, I can watch television on virtually all the fitness equipment, I can bring the children to their free daycare, and I am met by nice instructors who in no way resemble a soldier, a construction worker, a cowboy or some other sort of Village idiot. And contrary to Dutch standards, the gym here is not full of young men flinching their muscles in an attempt to pick up the unnatural blonde on the elliptical who - next to her perfect body - apparently also suffers from a lack of sweat glands. Instead, the Y is filled with older people, some even quite old. And it is endearing to watch an oldie take up to ten minutes to get up on the treadmill, only to see their walking sticks fall of the minute they start walking. Needless to say, I help out on these occasions.

Because it's always good to incorporate new routines in your workout program, I make a habit out of trying new equipment. But until recently, I was hesitant to use the Stairmaster, an apparatus that requires you to walk an endless staircase. It is, by all standards, the worst fitness apparatus ever, a fate worse than Hell. But in an attempt to conquer my fears, this week I finally went to Hell and back, taking the stairs to what the apparatus said was the 48th floor in a 15-minute-feels-like-15-hours perish-and-die moment. And to make matters worse, instead of feeling invigorated after my workout, it left me confused. Because did I actually walk up to the 48th floor, or should I take into consideration the fact that the United States usually calls ground level 'first floor'? Because that would mean that I only walked up to the 47th floor. It might seem insignificant to you, but if I ever want to partake in the 'stairs run competition' in the Erasmusgebouw in Nijmegen, I need to know my limits. I guess I have to conquer Hell again in another session of the Stairmaster. Stay tuned for Stairmaster: the sequel.

O, and you must agree with me that there is some irony in the fact that Lucas refers to the daycare at the Y as 'de sportschool'? He'll start his own workout routine soon though, as swimming lessons will commence in spring and he really wants to play soccer there as well.

The presents or presence of a Theory of Mind

During my years as a Ph.D. student I have been reading (and writing) about Theory of Mind, aka the ability to attribute mental states (desires, beliefs and feelings) to oneself and others, an ability which seems to be lacking in many children with autism spectrum disorders. I'm not a huge fan of the Theory of Mind concept, as it is ill defined and ever expanding. In addition, many of the so called Theory of Mind tasks seem to hinge on language abilities as much as a Theory of Mind. And although there have been some successes to test Theory of Mind abilities in apes, Theory of Mind and language seem connected on many levels.

But this week I saw the rudimentary workings of the infamous Theory of Mind in my eldest son Lucas (3 yrs). He knows his birthday is coming up in about two months, and his little brother will have his a mere three days later. But way before that, my husband will turn.... well, that isn't really important for this story. So, I asked Lucas what he thought his dad would like to get as a present. He came up with.... a frog. Yes, a frog. No, no clue. My husband is not particularly interested in frogs, we don't keep any frogs or plan to do so in the near future, and Lucas has never displayed an avid interest in them either. So, to understand his trail of thought, I asked whether he could come up with another present. Some serious thinking happened, after which he was absolutely sure of the complete and utter bliss of his dad  if he got some bones. But not just any bones, T-rex bones. No question marks about the nature of that idea, since Lucas is very interested into that himself. But he didn't take another round of questioning as his final resolve was a bunch of flowers. Typical male instinct kicking in there, probably.

So how does this prove his developing Theory of Mind? It doesn't. But you know what, even I am unable to come up with a decent idea for my husband. So, instead we contemplated presents for his baby brother Kwint. And it didn't take Lucas long to come up with two ideas: penguins and cars. Spot on, and to his credit, Lucas does like penguins, but it's Kwint who's seriously obsessed with them. So, there you have it, Lucas has a Theory of Mind, and a diagnosis of autism is getting more unlikely every day. 

Kwint, on the other hand, is a different story. At a regular visit to the pediatrician (the American consultatiebureau), some eyebrows were raised on the subject of him not using the pronouns 'I' or 'me'. Never mind the pediatrician used a schedule for children aged 2, or the fact that Kwint is having to cope with the challenge of being raised bilingual, or even the fact that he does say words as 'mine' and doesn't meet any other criteria that would merit concerns for a possible developmental disorder. She offered us the opportunity to fill out a huge questionnaire which would be checked by specialists to see if there would be any reason for further checkups. We respectfully declined and went home only to find that the Dutch Van Wiechenschema (used at the Dutch consultatiebureau) considers it a skill for 2,5 year-olds. There still is time...

Social Seating

Als emigrationatrice (vrouwelijke ambassadeur van de emigratie) vlieg ik geregeld naar Nederland op en neer. En natuurlijk is het telkens weer spannend, want je weet nooit of de piloot halverwege de Atlantische Oceaan besluit om 'eruit te stappen', en of er vervolgens niet toch iemand in het vliegtuig zit die met haar hakjes de noodglijbaan afgaat en deze penetreert, waarna een glijdende aftocht niet meer tot de mogelijkheden behoort. Ook is het altijd maar afwachten of de leden van de mile high-group niet per ongeluk vast komen te zitten in het toilet waarna je tien uur lang met samengeknepen billen zit. In dat kader is samenwerking tussen de KLM en de NS wellicht een goed idee.

Maar de echte crux zit 'm in de passagier naast je. En precies daarom heeft KLM het geweldige idee opgevat om bij het reserveren van je stoel de Facebook of Linkedin pagina's van medepassagiers te tonen. Op die manier kun je ervoor kiezen naast iemand plaats te nemen met eenzelfde voorliefde voor voetbalplaatjes, iemand die op zaterdag ook het liefst dronken in de gracht lazert, of iemand die net als jij fan is van het oude kapsel van Justin Bieber. 

Met recht een geweldig idee om de volgende redenen. Zo kan ik, indien één van de passagiers lid is van een terroristische zelfmoordclub, mijn voorkeur kenbaar maken voor een stoel naast de nooduitgang. Of ik kan mijn vlucht cancellen wanneer de ganse fanclub van Ajax (niets persoonlijks) een leuk uitje heeft. En als Justin Bieber zelf ook zijn Facebook pagina linkt aan de KLM, kan ik verdorie nog naast 'the boy himself' zitten ook.

Ik ben dan wel een voorstander voor meer persoonlijke informatie op Facebook. Bijvoorbeeld de mate van knoflookgebruik, een eventuele voorliefde voor overmatig parfumgebruik, aard en inhoud van conflicten met buren/huisbaas/familie/vrienden, en blaasvolume. Dat laatste in verband met het aantal bezoekjes aan de toilet. 

Er is slechts één minpuntje. Waar het voorheen een voorrecht was om niemand naast je te hebben, wordt het nu een punt van medelijden. Terug naar de dagen dat je tijdens gym als laatste voor een team werd gekozen...

Frown Baby Frown

Every now and again I get invited to a full-blown stick-it-in-and-have-some-cake Botox party. I try not to take it personally, which isn't that hard when the invitations arrive via email and are send out to virtually every mom in the Bay area. But it helps that I actually know I don't need any Botox injections. Why would I, when people look shocked when I tell them I have two children. I usually add 'but they're still very small', as if I that would justify it, but maybe I should start every conversation by stating that I am not a teenage mom. Because I'm not, you know. But jokes aside, even if my face would warrant Botox injections to rejuvenate myself (because I'm worth it), I'd decline. And now I have scientific proof that the use of Botox should be frowned upon. 

As you probably know, Botox paralyzes facial muscles. It is especially popular to deactivate those pesky frown muscles that show up when we're angry or sad. But a recent study shows that being able to frown is a necessary evil to understand said emotions. Patients scheduled for a first Botox injection were subjected to a reading task involving sentences with an angry, sad or happy component. After the patients had their treatment, reading time increased for the angry and sad sentences, but not for the happy sentences. Apparently, we need to be able to activate our frown muscles to be able to get in to the feeling and thus understand the sentences.

The moral of this study can be summarized by a quote from the Bible (or an African proverb, depending where you look):

'Sorrow is better than laughter; it may sadden your face, but it sharpens your understanding.'

But personally, I like this one better:

'The frowning face of a goat doesn't prevent it being taken to market.' Unfortunately, I am in the dark as to the meaning of this proverb.

Writings and ramblings...

I know I've been dreadfully absent. It's because of all the projects I am involved in and a couple of new writings I've been working on... but to make it up to you, I'll post a column I've been working on. It's in Dutch, sorry for those of you unable to read it. And after this week I'll be up and running again.

Uit eten in Amerika

Zes uur. Lekker uit eten met een vriendin. Come in, just follow me and I’ll get you guys seated! Te kort jurkje, benen tot aan d’r hoofd en hoge naaldhakken. Dank je. Ze gaat even een menu halen. Exit serveerster. Twee seconden later, enter serveerster. Vlak voor de tafel begint de fake smile met het over de top huppeltje. Hello, I’m Jenny, I’ll be your waitress for the evening. Here are your menus. Can I get you anything to drink? Hè, je had ons toch net al naar onze tafel gebracht? Had je toen niet kunnen zeggen wat je naam was? Maar goed. Uhm. Doe maar een cola. Sorry? O ja, een Coke. Diet or regular? Nou, doe maar een regular, hoor. En zij wil een Diet Coke, kan niet missen, hè. Ice? Ja, lekker, het is hier 34 graden en ik ben zwaar oververhit van de wandeling van de parkeerplaats naar het restaurant, dus wat verfrissing kan geen kwaad. Exit Jenny. Tien seconden later, enter Jenny met twee Cokes met ijs, één Diet, één regular. So, are you ready to order, yet? Nou, eigenlijk niet nee, we zitten nog maar net, en ik heb het menu van vijf pagina’s, het dagmenu, het kaartje met de specials en de restaurant-week special nog niet kunnen lezen. Zouden we nog even op de kaart mogen kijken? Sure you guys, let me know when you’re ready, ok? Tuurlijk, doen we, we zijn per slot van rekening hier gekomen om wat te eten, nietwaar? Exit Jenny. Tien seconden later, enter Jenny. Just checking in. Would you like to know about our specials? Die staan hier netjes op dit kaartje, toch? En we kunnen lezen dus het komt helemaal goed. Would you like a refill? Nou, als je het niet erg vindt, drink ik eerst even deze op. More ice? Nee hoor, er zit nog genoeg ijs in. Exit Jenny, huppelend op die verrekte naaldhakken. Wel twee minuten later, enter Jenny. How are you doing? Are you finding everything ok? Ja hoor, prima. We hebben toch zeker één hele pagina van het menu kunnen bekijken, maar doe maar het dagmenu. Sorry? BBQ-saus. O nee, wacht, doe maar ketchup. Exit Jenny.

Zo. Kunnen we even bijpraten. Hoe is het met jou? Hoe gaat het met je ve.... Nee, de soep was voor mij, zij had de salade. Zie ik eruit als een salade-persoon? Sjezus, kan het nog sneller. Nou goed, we slurpen wel wat langzamer. Wat? Nee, geen refill dank je, mijn maaginhoud is voorlopig dichtgevroren dankzij de hoeveelheid ijs in de vorige cola, dus tenzij je thee in de aanbieding hebt laat ik het hier even bij. Nee, grapje. Ik hoef geen thee. Nee, echt niet. Exit Jenny.

Echt waar? Moet hij veel overwerken, dan? Nou dat is ook... Hè? Nee, het gaat echt prima. Ja, het eten is heerlijk, hoor. Wel een beetje veel ketchup in de soep. Neehee, ik hoef geen refill. Nou goed dan, omdat je zo aandringt. Het is toch gratis, hè, en we blijven Nederlanders, ook al wonen we hier. Exit Jenny.

Wat zei je nou? Dat is ook wat. En wat zegt zijn baas er dan... Wat is er nu weer? O, dank je. Nee, je mag het bord meenemen. En hier is de lepel. Ik had hem nog in mijn hand. Ja gek he, ik had mijn laatste hap nog niet op. Maar goed. Neem maar mee. Hebben we eindelijk even een momentje rust.

Zijn baas dus. Nou, vervelend hoor. Ik zou als ik hem was... Wat? Nee, ik had de pasta, zij heeft de maaltijdsalade. Ja, bedankt. Nee, ik hoef geen refill meer, de bubbels van die twee cola’s beginnen me naar het hoofd te stijgen. Ook niets anders. Ja, doe maar wat Parmezaanse kaas. Nee, dat is wel genoeg, ik kan de pasta eronder niet meer zien, en mijn bord ziet eruit als een net uitgebarste Vesuvius. Lekker hoor.

Waar waren we? Hebben zijn collega’s er iets van gezegd? Dat is misschien wel... Pardon? Nee, je hebt me een minuut geleden toch al een refill aangeboden? Nou, weet je wat, kom maar gewoon door met die refills, kan mij het schelen. Ja, lekker. Ook ijs ja. En een citroentje? O, dat heb je dan weer niet. Nou, dan niet hoor. Ja, we roepen echt wel als we wat nodig hebben. Ga ik op de tafel staan schreeuwen en tapdansen, wees maar niet bang. Dahaggg.

Zijn collega’s zeggen er ook niets van? Dat is ook gek...Nee, geen refill had ik gezegd! O. Oké. Nee, dat wisten we niet. Fijn dat je het even meldt. We zullen de w.c. niet gebruiken. Wordt lastig met al die refills, maar goed.

Hoe voel jij je eronder? Nee, dat snap ik, dat is natuurlijk...Wat nu weer? Ja, neem maar mee. Ik heb geen honger meer na al die refills. Bedankt hoor. Sorry? Of ik er een bakje voor wil? Wat bedoel je daar nou weer mee? O. Nee, het is niet alsof ik die pasta morgen weer ga opwarmen. Die is morgen zo verlept dat ik ‘m zelfs niet opgestijfd krijg met die hoeveelheid ijsblokjes die je in mijn cola heb gedaan. Of ik dat zeker weet? Ja natuurlijk, ik weet toch zeker zelf wel wat ik wil. Een dessert? Nou, daar heb ik wel zin in. Ik kan wel een bak chocolade gebruiken om het beeld van je blikkerende nepglimlach van mijn netvlies af te vlakken. Prima, doe me die maar.

Jeetje zeg, wat naar dat jullie zo in een dip zi...Ja! Natuurlijk is die chocoladetaart voor mij. Denk je nou echt dat zij met haar graatmagere zandloperfiguur überhaupt durft te denken aan chocoladetaart? Ze ziet de grammen er al aankomen. Ja, ga maar weg. Hallo? Hallo? HALLO? Ik sta hier nu al vijf minuten met mijn handeren te wapperen, ik heb er geen vork bij gekregen. Beetje moeilijk eten zo, hè? Ja, bedankt. O, krijgen we direct de rekening? Goed hoor, ik wilde toch geen koffie. Doos. Die fooi kan ze ook op d’r buik schrijven.

Hoe laat is het eigenlijk? Half zeven. Jee, als ik me haast kan ik net de kinderen nog op bed leggen. Was gezellig, hè? Hebben we fijn even bij kunnen praten. Doen we snel nog een keer. En de groeten aan je vent!

Search Engine Optimization

Ok, I didn't want to throw around computer terms, but I am seriously considering a course of SEO basics (Search Engine Optimization). And no, this idea did not spring from the mind of my tech hub, it's all mine. I even managed to find the term SEO on my own. Thank you.

The reason that a gamma person such as me would even consider dabbling in scary beta things such as SEO courses is the stats page of my website, which I like to check every now and again. After all, who wants to write for nobody, right? Admittedly, I may not write about world shocking news items, but for some reason the Russians seem to think I have something desirable, so why not you? But don't worry, I can't see who you are, I just know you're there. No, don't go yet, stay a little longer...

My stats page has this fun option of reading how people find my site. And did you know that I am a big hit for people who are looking for answers on their cockroach dreams? Also, I am very wanted by people who poop butterflies. Then there is this small group of you - you know who you are - who find my website hoping to find answers to your 'bad at networking' issues. But alas. To those of you I say, I hear you! Let me know when you find a useful website. 

But most people who end up on my site want to know all about cats eating rats, rats eating cats, cats eating food, or something similar. I wonder if my 'cat eat rat' post actually answered any of their questions. Probably not...Now, in favor of my very person, I do have to mention that there actually are people who search on my name. They are probably the only ones who get what they were after. To those of you: congratulations. You found me.

But seriously, when you think about it, I might be on to something here. All kinds of totally unrelated people with unrelated issues (although I can imagine that people who poop butterflies must have problems in any socially related field) end up on my website. So maybe I should just throw around random terms that are hot. Britney Spears. You didn't see that one coming? Cat videos (I probably covered many of those searches already).  Justin Bieber. Scared you there, right? I'm probably all over the world wide web right now, except on searches related to terrorism. But I'll stay away from those, just in case the FBI and CIA are monitoring my website as well.

So, if you're reading this and care to tell me how you found my website, and more importantly, whether you actually found what you were looking for, you can always leave a message. But if you don't, I will still know you're there.

Feel free to leave now.

Follow up Meet the Flintstones

Some of you suggested the Flintstone house of the previous post looked a lot like the place of residence of Barbapapa, and whether I might have gotten my facts wrong. But no, this is not the case. To prove it, I contacted the FBI and CIA and got the Barbapapa address. Underneath a picture of the Barbapapa residence (curtosy of palaisbulles.com)

Strangely enough, the Barbapapa family does not live in California. As to why they chose France over California, I am not sure. Maybe they got tired of people ringing their door in order to meet the Flintstones, or perhaps their first home just kind of shriveled up in a mysterious way. Who knows.

Hopefully, this will put an ending to your doubts, and to posts dedicated to strange houses. May they rest in...well, an inflated state.

Meet the Flintstones

As you might have noticed, most of the fictitious people I know reside in California. Let's not dwell on that.  Apparently this interesting finding also goes for the Flintstones, as I stumbled on their place of residence. I've seen the 'house' time and again driving on highway 280 on my way to San Francisco International Airport. Finally, after several rides during which I was able to see the darn thing long enough to question my sanity, but never long enough to take a snapshot, I smartened up and remembered the closest exit number. Thank you Google Maps (satellite version), thank you Wikipedia and thank you Beatrice Murch, who did manage to take the picture. From the highway nonetheless. Amazing lady.

Oh, and by the way, if you love architecture (and even if you don't) you absolutely have to check out the ridiculous way the building was created. Balloons? Sounds a lot like papier-mâché to me. I wonder whether the thing shriveled up, like my papier-mâché projects always did.

Excommunication

When you are expecting your first child, everything is exciting and extraordinary. You're totally exhilarated, don't know what to expect (except the obvious) and in case you're me, you tend to examine all kinds of tables with examples of age-related milestones. Now, when you're expecting your second born, things are a little different. Because, of course, you know what to expect, right? But that's just what you think. You are better off not expecting to know what to expect and you should definitely refrain from extrapolating from your previous experiences. Because the existence of 50% gene-overlap counts for exactly nothing. Zero that is.

For example, my first born exceeded my expectations concerning his expressive language development. At 19 months his vocabulary consisted of an exceptionally well pronounced 300-something words, some words more exclusive than others (can anybody explain why a child this age would need the word 'label'?). Now, I honestly did not expect my second born to be exactly the same. And it is not that he is at the other extreme with no words to express himself. But his pronunciation is extraordinary, exquisite and very exclusive (or in this case, I should say very INclusive), with most words falling into either one of three categories: auto, tuttel and behh.

Within the category 'auto':

ootoo (auto/car)

tatooh (tractor/tractor)

otoonn (open/open)

ootehh (oma/grandma)

tootehh (broodje/bread)

tooteh (vogel/bird)

The category 'tuttel' (cuddly blanket):

tuttehh (tuttel/cuddly blanket)

titteh (zitten/sit)

tietuh (vliegtuig, airplane)

ditteh (drinken/drink)

ditteh/dit (dicht/shut)

tietteh (fiets/bike)

tuiteh (buiten/outside)

tuttah (Lucas/Lucas) (who - by the way - does not appreciate being called a cuddly blanket)

thitheh (visje/fish)

tijteh (kijken/look)

And the category 'behh':

bah (bah/bwegh)

boo (boom/tree)

ba (bal/ball)

bui (buik/tummy)

The less exclusive, 'other' category:

nee (no), o-o!, kaaa! (klaar/done), koe (cow), jaaa! (lamp/lamp), kaa! (kaas/cheese), papa (daddy), mama (mommy, toettoet (sound of car), aai (hug), kie-ke-boe (peekaboo), haa (haar/hair), tnnn (teen/toe), neu (neus/nose), pepehh (piemel/private parts), wawa (hond/dog)

And last, and also least category 'English':

car, go, eaja (ear), choochoo, hi

Think I'm exaggerating? You'll just have to excuse me.

Where's Waldo...

Yep. Found him too. And I wasn't even looking for him. I must admit he was a bit of a disappointment in real life.

Given the choice, I'd opt for the books rather than meeting him in situ. Much more of a challenge if you ask me.

Santa's village

I found him. The bugger was hiding right under our very noses. The whole idea that he would choose to live at the North pole was crazy to begin with. Who wouldn't choose warm an' sunny California over the toe freezing, cold catching, teeth clattering North pole? But enough of this. I found him, and even though I did not visit the place, my imagination of it makes it an unnecessary and possibly even insensible journey. After all: Santa's got better things to do.

I imagine elves flying around, tinkering with flowers and playing hopscotch on lily pads, until Grumpy (having enough of this merry scene) manages to trip one smack-bang in the middle of the pond. I imagine Rudolph frolicking about, playing hide and seek, which seems silly because his nose can be spotted from miles away. But that doesn't matter, cause he's playing with Dopey, who wouldn't be able to find his own ears lest he was standing on them. 

Meanwhile, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Dunder, and Blixem attend to more serious matters, cleaning the sleigh karate-style - wax on, wax off - . Mrs. Claus, the real housewife of California, wholeheartedly engages in her task of reading the daily letters composed of endless, crooked written wish lists written by all the children in the world, filing them not only alphabetically, but also based on area of interest, price range, and presence of dyslexia. In what little time remains - though she never minds this, secretly even loves her time consuming, indispensable role - she applies calligraphy to write the names of said children in Santa's big and dusty book 'Naughty 'n Nice'. Occasionally, she glances out of the kitchen window, and catches a glimpse of chipmunks Chip and Dale (Knabbel en Babbel voor de Nederlandse lezertjes) who are having a private pool party in Santa's spray ground. Whereas some of the more serious villagers frown upon this questionable behavior, among which the above mentioned Grumpy, Mrs. Claus knows that Santa actually loves their exuberant demeanor. Chip and Dale took on their share of the work, planting the seeds of the Christmas trees earlier in the year, and it is only fair to let them steam off some of their excess energy. This does not mean that Santa overlooked the fact that Chip munched on some of the seeds whilst planting them, and that Dale keeps a secret stash of them in his tree, causing the orchard to have a slightly haphazard feel to it. Santa did not need Snoopy to rat on them, although Snoopy, being Santa's eyes, ears, and nose especially, showed his true colors and zealous nature upon hearing about this from Sleepy, who is not at all what he seems to be, sleepy that is. But, as one may have gathered by now, Santa has a little soft spot for Chip and Dale.

If you listen carefully, you can probably hear his hearty, boisterous bursts of laughter when Chip and Dale, employing Super Soakers as sprinklers for the orchard, turn against Santa, after which the whole village engages in a merry water fight. HO HO HO.

Crafty Warcraft

World War II. Definitely a nasty war by all standards. A war requiring brilliant minds and creative ideas as one can read from this news item. Welcome to the mind of some of history's most important war strategists. Putting female hormones into Hitler's food in an attempt to make him less aggressive? Drop glue on German troops? I figure if these suggestions are considered valid and smart, I may as well throw some ideas of my own. So here are some alternative suggestions that just sprang from my wandering mind. A bit late to bring about Hitler's demise, but they might come in handy for other bad-ass world leaders during wartime:

Frankincense bombing:
Guaranteed mellowness for an entire country.
Warcraft games:
Virtual reality to replace or deflect the need for complete annihilation.
Planking attacks:
Because a stiff enemy just ain't no fun.
Hallmark cards:
Nothing speaks as much as a Hallmark card.
Glamour makeover:
Because looking good equals feeling good.
Free lottery tickets:
Winning price, a ticket to the moon. One-way, non-refundable. No correspondence possible concerning the outcome.
Broadcasting Reggae music:
'Don't worry be happy', 'simmer down', and 'judge not' to induce the feeling of love. Admittedly, the songs 'no woman, no cry' and 'stir it up' might not be suitable in this case, stringent selection is imperative.
Feathers and tar:
It has been known to work throughout history. Worst thing that can happen is that it makes the enemy more fluffy.
Pet presents:
After all, pets help to reduce stress and loneliness, as well as enhance socialization and attitudes.
Vuvuzela precision bombarding:
If it drove people insane at the 2010 World Cup matches, it just might do the trick for an army.

And should all these methods fail, we can always rely on the classical time-out. Hey, I figure if it works for my son, it might work for the Hitlers of the world too.

The truth is out there, so lie to me

While conducting a literature search on the development of cohesion in children I stumbled upon an interesting paper on lying and the use of 'um'. Even though it didn't have any relation whatsoever to the things I was looking for, I couldn't resist the urge to read the paper. But who wouldn't be interested in a paper with the title: 'Use of "um" in the deceptive speech of a convicted murderer', or  'Lies, lies and more lies' for that matter (both by Villar and colleagues). I have always thought that the use of um was a filler, used in order to organize one's thoughts. With this idea in mind, you would expect 'umming' all over the place in case of a lie. But the research by Villar and colleagues shows that umming is actually reduced when people lie compared to when they tell the truth. Their results are based on an experiment in which they told subjects to either lie or tell the truth about an opinion they held, but also based on a comprehensive analysis of truths and lies in police transcripts of a convicted murderer. How's that for a subject? In view of their results, Villar and colleagues argue that the use of um should be regarded as part of authentic, natural communication, which is lacking when one is lying.

Now, when we just moved to the United States we found an interesting television series 'Lie to me' in which Dr. Cal Lightman uses microexpressions (involuntary facial expressions of emotions that last about 1/25 to 1/15 of a second) and body gestures to investigate criminal cases. Wouldn't he be thrilled to be able to use umming as a lie detector?

Suspect: Well, ummm...
Dr. Cal: That's a LIE!
Suspect: but, ummm...
Dr. Cal: Another lie!
Suspect: could you at least let me finish it?

In addition, it also reminded me of a game often played on radio shows in which a person has to talk for one minute without saying 'um'. Apparently, the solution for winning the game is lying.

While on the subject of bad behavior, today I had to reprimand Lucas for refusing to get into the car which was followed by a screaming fit. Once I managed to get him into his car seat: "Sorry mommy. I won't scream anymore, mommy, and I won't yell anymore. And I won't... I won't... Mommy, what else did I do?"

Zen gardening

Do you know the little Japanese Zen-gardens you always get as a gift from a soon-to-be-ex-oh-so-funny-friend or family member? The gift always comes with some bogus line on how you have everything you need except for peace and harmony. Oh come-on... You've been there. Or worse, you got somebody a gift like that. In which case I say to you: May sand grains (g)rain upon you, and let there be no peace or harmony until you handpicked them from between your long pine carpet. There. See how Zen you'll be after that.

But there is some truth to this Zen gardening thing. I know because I made myself a personal Zen garden. Not with sand grains that need raking in some kind of intricate Tangram or Haiku design. But a garden with actual fruit and veggies. A mini-Eden with a few plants here and there of this and that, because I get embarrassed when I need to go on weekly coffee visits to friends in order distribute broccoli, zucchini, and turnip (which I used to hand over while whispering something about peace and harmony). I'm ready to get Zenish.

So in celebration of the Harvesting of Zendarins, Zenatoes and Zencchinis:

Can you feel it?
Now excuse me, I have to go yell at Paint for not doing what I want it to do.

Journalistic irony

I do love science. And the media. And the combination is simply hilarious:

On Nu.nl I read about a study on the quality and impartiality of journalistic pieces on science as reported by the BBC. Apparently, BBC journalists have a tendency to want to voice alternative theories or ideas when it comes to reporting on scientific results. So, if some researchers are unable to establish a link between let's say autism and vaccination, BBC journalists tend to overreport on studies and ideas that voice the opposite regardless of the lack of scientific proof of these counter ideas. As Knights of the Principle of Impartiality, I think this is a noble effort that might be applauded if it would not have been so entirely backwards.

You fail to see the humor in this? I understand. But it gets better. The proof is in the pudding, because after reporting on the study on the quality and impartiality of journalistic pieces on science, the journalist of Nu.nl (Mr. A. Nonymous) states: 'At least, this is the conclusion of .....' (dit is althans de conclusie van...) So, in reporting on this study, Mr. Nonymous shows himself to be a minor Knight of the Principe of Impartiality by casting some doubt on the results of the reported study. If only he would have gone all the way...

Double duties: patriotism

You might assume that moving abroad would have all kinds of benefits. And it does. But you should not dismiss the double duties we are also faced with. Or did you think that the Tax Authorities would just forget about us? No no, we are among the lucky few who get to fill out both the USA tax forms and the Dutch tax forms. And the Dutch forms need to be filled out on paper. Not just Any paper, Many paper(s). But in all fairness I need to admit that the Dutch Tax Authorities' slogan 'we can't make it any more fun, but we can make it easier' can be applied internationally. The USA tax forms are not an improvement of any kind.

But so far for taxes. The real hardships of our life here are the patriotic problems we encounter on a daily basis. The latest of our double Ds or double Ps was the 4th of July. We decided to pay tribute to the USA with a Dutch zest, so to speak.

So, it is with great pride that I present to you:

4th of July, the Dutch way*:

*of course, since helmets are mandatory for kids in California, there was just a hint of USA in our Dutch way. I say mix 'n match, let there be peace between our countries.

Talk about...

Lucas' talk.

Lately, I haven't given you any updates on the progress in English (and Dutch too) he's been making, so this blog is dedicated to him. In Dutch his favorite words include 'denk ik' (I think) and 'eigenlijk' (actually). Also, he's been working on his subordinate clauses with 'omdat' (because), which I think is actually a big coincidence, because I'm currently working on a project to get normative data on the Dutch RTNA (Renfrew Taalsschalen Nederlandse Aanpassing; Renfrew Language Scales) and get to see all kinds of data on subordinate clauses of children aged 4 to 8.

But... back to Lucas' talk:

If you can count it, you can have it:
all the numbers from one to 14, but mostly the following sequence: 'een, twee, drie, vier, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven'
Apparently, this is precisely what should happen according to second language acquisition theories as a friend who just finished his PhD thesis on code switching told me. But for those of you who are interested in the code-switching thing, you'll have to wait for my column in the Tijdschrift voor Orthopedagogiek.

Do's and don'ts:
jumpen, flyen, sit, march, have, want, drink, look, sleep, come, run

The more the merrier: add 'm ons:

little, big, more, blue, red, yellow (pronounced lello), purple, up, down, fast

Under my bed:
butterfly, bumblebee, ladybug, monkey, elephant, doggie, cat, dinosaur, dragon, rabbit (no, it ain't a bunny, it's a frog)

I want to ride on a..:
firetruck

But also in a:
bus, car, bike, airplane, choochoo train (AKA choochoo, AKA train, AKA Thomas)

Say it nicely:
thank you, please, good morning, hi, bye bye, my name is...,

But if you don't:
no (pronounced with an exclamation mark at the end), yes, come on, stop it, high five, everybody sit down, hands up, let's go, go away, ready, set, go! who's that? I want

Own up:
mine (accompanied by hitting if necessary), my, I, you (the last one only in combination with the aforementioned other own ups)

Grown up:
daddy, mommy, miss, doctor


And then some:
shoe, hat, crackers, ball (pronounced bow), moon, star, rain


Not quite there yet:
rainboog, sandbax

Music to my ears:
the wheels of the bus-song, twinkle twinkle little star, abc-song (although the double u is sung as hebbayou and results in a indefinite loop involving hebbeayous unless we manage to save him), five little monkeys are jumping on the bed, happy birthday to you, jingle bells, itsy bitsy spider, the ants go marching in, caring hearts song

First home-made sentence: I have cars (uttered on 1 july, 2011)

And I know I forgot a lot of things, so I'll post another blog soon.

I had a dream...

USA, the land of opportunity. At first, I might have been a bit skeptical, but I soon fell in love with its nature and culture. Admittedly, the American folk are a tad peculiar. What to think of people who go crazy about the thought of baby wipes warmers? But I learned to look past these peculiarities and enjoyed the life-altering experience of living abroad. I lived days of daintiness, and bounced around in bliss. Weekends of wondrous weather were bestowed on me on more than one occasion and nifty novelties made my life that much easier. But even in the midst of my joyous, fruitful, lighthearted living, I knew that my days were numbered and that my number would soon be up. I just didn't know what the ending would look like.

But alas, now I do. Apparently it looks like a giant shield on legs. A cockroach. Of all the mildly annoying creatures that co-inhabit the USA, think killer bees, think termites, think giant centipedes or even snakes, I just had to meet the mother of all yuck-bugs (yes, I do happen to know that snakes are not considered to be a bug, but since they bug the hell out of me, categorizing them under bugs does not seem illogical).

So now I'm left with my shattered dreams at my feet. Those and a dead cockroach.