Sleeping beauty?

It was the weekend from hell. Never before have I been so unnerved by my child’s cries that I have had to take a time out. Allow me to explain.

Sacha is currently in the throes of the sequences stage. It is one of the developmental stages described in Hetty Vanderijt’s and Frans Plooij’s book The Wonder Weeks: How to Turn Your Baby’s 8 Great Fussy Phases into Magical Leaps Forward. Those crazy Dutch have warped conceptions of wonder and magic.

Our strategies for helping Sacha sleep were working quite beautifully. He had been getting mostly happy faces on his mommy’s sleep-rating chart. But the world came crashing down this week.

He has decided that he will only sleep if he is being held. That’s it. He could be completely comatose but as soon as he feels a slight descent toward the crib, he kicks into panic mode and sobs relentlessly until one of us picks him up.

Sarah and I have never been fans of Ferber. I cannot speak for Sarah, but I find it impossible to hold out against the torrent of tears rushing forth from my child. Not that people who choose to use cry-it-out (CIO) are destined for eternal damnation, but it is not for me, and it is certainly not for Sacha. He inherited my stubbornness, and the few times we resorted to CIO, we were treated to a perpetual sobfest that only exacerbated the problem.

Well, this weekend we bottomed out. After many fruitless attempts to transfer Sacha to his crib, we both threw our hands in the air and decided to Ferberize. Oh. My. Goodness.

What a disaster. Half an hour into the massacre I asked Sarah if she wished to continue. Being more steadfast than I, she responded affirmatively. “Well, then I have to go for a walk.”

That’s right. I did the Park-Shirley-Joseph circuit at 12:30 am. It is a different world that late at night, but it really helped me clear my head. And when I returned to my abode of expecting Armageddon, I was greeted instead by complete silence. Thank goodness.

The rest of the weekend has been a series of frustrations and triumphs. It culminated in us having to completely reevaluate our strategy; that is to say, to return to our old ways. Anytime he has some rough nights, I tend to abandon all tried and true methods for a quick fix. Luckily, the rational hand of my wife guides me toward sanity, and the infant sleep advice of my great mentor and friend Roland rings in my mind: “You can never spoil an infant.” How true, my friend, how true.

My new bike

I bought a sweet-ass bike today! You see, one of the glorious aspects of the Shoppers Drug Mart scholarship program is the signing bonus of $20 000 you receive in 3 installments. The wonder of a signing bonus is it is more or less fun money. So with that fun money, among other more sensible things, I went out and bought a bike. I bought the Trek 7.3 FX, what is considered a hybrid bike because it has the look of a mountain bike but the geometry, speed, and wheel shape of a road bike. Its purpose is commuting, which is what I bought it for, as I plan to bike to work every day. I can’t wait to get it. Then I’ll just have to spend a bit more money on some gear (rain gear, cuff straps, gloves, saddle bag, etc.) Wish me luck on my travels!

And Tony wept

Although I must say I prefer the ritualistic nature of Catholic masses to the loosely defined structure of evangelical Protestant services, I have always found the latter to be remarkably moving. There certainly is a significant emotional aspect to these services and I experienced it today. During Jack’s dedication, I looked up at Brad and Julie and Jack, a young, beautiful family, surrounded by those who love them. Dr. Doug Arnold, a local physician and an elder at the church presided over the dedication. A father of four himself, he was clearly moved by the moment. Let us just say his words reflected his emotions. As I listened and watched, visions of Sacha as a newborn flashed in my head, followed by a series of events like him rocking in my arms in the dead of night, him running around the lawn butt naked, him reaching out for me when I come home from work, and him taking his first steps last week.

And Tony wept.

I was a mess. I couldn’t contain it. It was like at my sister’s wedding when my brother was wanting to hide his tears so badly he was physically trying to cram them back into his tear ducts. Get back in there. That was me.

So that I wouldn’t make a scene, Sarah sent me downstairs to get Sacha from the playroom. Perfect timing. He was in an emotional heap. Apparently he had just realized his parents were not there and he was playing with perfect strangers. Well, daddy to the rescue. We cried together for a few minutes, got mommy, and then went home for a well-deserved nap.

My little player

We were at the Timmins First Baptist Church this morning to attend the dedication of little baby Jack, our friends’ first. Sacha, of course, was quite uninterested in the proceedings. He was more concerned with the open windows in the back with the fancy opening devices. As he chatted with the window a little girl, probably 2 years old, approached. She reached out toward Sacha, clearly enthralled with this little boy drunk with happiness. Sacha flippantly looked back at her and brushed her off with the flick of a hand and went about his work. Not to be discouraged, the little girl made a second attempt. This time she went for broke, leaning forward to lay a big juicy one on Sacha’s cheek. He looked back at her, decided that what she was doing must not be allowed, and pushed her away. Not to be deterred, the little girl persevered and leaned in once again. As though to appease her, Sacha presented his right cheek, she laid a big juicy kiss on it. Another push, and back to the window. The little girl was clearly very pleased and Sacha could not have cared less. What a little player.

Common sense

My former boss and good friend, Shawn Cripps, had a wonderful saying. He’d say, “You know Tony, the funny thing about common sense is it’s not all that common.” I have certainly come across my share of boneheads in my life, or those booksmart kids that don’t have a shed of common sense. But when the absence of such a fundamental attribute in an entire society reaches epidemic proportions, one can only wonder.

Recent reading material has coalesced into a common theme on which I must comment. I recently finished the brilliant Omnivore’s Dilemma by Michael Pollan. Yesterday I came across a great article on the Freakonomics Blog. And today I read a fascinating article by Doug Saunders, the greatest columnist at the Globe and Mail, on the sky high suicide rates among Indian farmers. How do these all come together?

In the Saunders article, the reasons for increased suicides among India’s cotton farmers are laid out. And it really comes down the loss of even a thread of common sense in Western agricultural policy. How do Western agricultural policymakers make decisions that cause absurd numbers of Indian farmers to off themselves by drinking bottles of pesticide? The Green Revolution occurred between 1940-1960 leading to huge increases in agricultural production. This was particularly important in developing countries where farmers could not produce enough food for their people. The problem with the whole concept behind the revolution is only now apparent.

In assuming not only that every successive generation of humans is smarter than those who came before them but that we, through the scientific method, can sufficiently reduce all complex natural processes into simplistic ones open to external manipulation, we open ourselves up to failure.

In order to achieve massive increases in agricultural yields, simplistic, but not holistic, farming practices were introduced. Farmers began purchasing hybrid cotton from Monsanto, one of the largest companies in the world. The beauty of hybrid cash crops from the companies standpoint is that they are genetically programmed to NOT reproduce. Now if that is not profit motive getting in the way of common sense, I don’t know what is. So yes, Indian farmers increased their yields. But now instead of keeping aside a portion of their previous year’s harvest to plant the next year, they have to buy new seed from an American agricultural corporation every single year. In order to cover the cost of this added expense they need to increase their yields further which means less labor intensive farming that ignores all natural processes and leads to soil destruction.

Not only have they bled the land for 40 years to push yields higher and higher, they are now producing more cotton than the market wants. It is similar to the situation described in Pollan’s book whereby the American corn farmer is producing more corn than the world needs. So the Americans have basically found a way to put corn in almost everything we consume to use up the excess and have encouraged further excess by subsidizing the costs of growing corn. A similar absurd situation exists in cotton production. Indian farmers can only compete with the highly subsidized American cotton industry if they continue to squeeze every last ounce of productivity out of their soil.

Where has this all led? A highly productive Indian textiles industry that creates thousands of jobs? Hardly. In fact, after forty years of artificial farming, and concurrent climatic catastrophes, the bad times have returned for the Indian cotton farmer. And now they are drinking themselves to death on bottles of pesticide, likely produced by the same companies that caused the problem in the first place.

Along comes Subhash Kuttall Sharma, a man who once took up the call of the Green Revolution and almost paid for it with his life. Saunders writes that Sharma nearly committed suicide during the Green Revolution after his crop yields tanked and he went bankrupt. This man was no idiot. He won awards for his superior crop production. But his practicing of overly simplistic agricultural practices eventually caught up to him.

Not to be defeated, he eschewed all this Western “knowledge” and went back to basics, back to common sense. As the owner of Polyface Farms does in Pollan’s book, Mr. Sharma now operates a labor-intensive but highly successful farm based on sustainable and sensible practices. Crop rotations; preserving monsoon rains in pits for use during droughts; animal waste as fertilizer. All traditional agricultural practices. The result: Mr. Sharma employs 45 labourers at his 20-hectare farm and made enough from this modestly sized farm that he is considered well-to-do in his town. So not only does he stimulate employment in the local economy, but he makes enough money to build a big house. That is a long way from almost offing himself.

And the secret to producing relative wealth off of only 50 acres of land (that is 20 hectares for those like me who find this a foreign unit of measurement)? “I’ve realized that sustainability and diversity are much more important than yield”. Go figure. Just like the people at the All England tennis club discovered the benefits of falconry, an ancient practice to keep pesky pigeons away, the ancient wisdom passed down by generations of farmers remains pertinent to this day.

Innovation is great, but if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Le Tour de Timmins

It seems a strange coincidence that the week I decided to start biking to work I turn on the TV and there is that most enigmatic of sporting events: Le Tour de France. First, let us discuss my newfound zealousness for biking to work. I got the idea awhile ago when my weight continued to creep up. Furthermore, gasoline hit $1.20 a litre. Both of these factors, environmental and personal health, conspired to encourage me to start biking to work. So I got together the necessary equipment and off I went. Turns out it takes me just as long to bike to work as it does to drive. Who would’ve thunk it. The only inconvenience is getting changed at work so that I do not smell like a neanderthal all day. But so far it is going pretty well. Now I just need a bike that is actually mine (I’m using my neighbor’s), one made for the streets, not the mountains, and some apparel that cuts my wind resistance, increases breathability, and protects me against the elements. Any tips would be welcome!

As for the Tour de France, I saw an article in the Globe last Saturday outlining the route map. The thought that someone could cover this 3500 km trail in 21 days without actually ceasing to live is astounding to someone. And the trail circulates through what is possibly the most beautiful country in the world: France. It covers the flat lands of Belgium, the beautiful countryside of Northeastern France, the crushing climbs of the Alps, the quaint locale of Mediterranean France, the Pyrenees, and then into the glorious city of Paris for the big finish on the Champs Elysees. The only thing I ever did on the Champs was walk for hours without wearing sunscreen, thus transforming myself into a crustacean whose legs go well with butter. All of this intrigued me, but I had never actually WATCHED the Tour de France. That would change this year thanks to Sacha waking up and interrupting our movie. Since it was Sarah’s turn to help him out, I flicked the channel and up came the TDF.

A former colleague of mine was an avid athlete, training for triathlons while raising twins and working full-time as a pharmacy manager. Every year in July he would avail me with stories about the Tour de France. Although I could see that it must be an interesting event, I could not get into it. It is the racing equivalent of cricket for me. I do not understand it. As a rule I find it difficult to become interested in something I do not understand. So, I employed Wikipedia to help me understand.

First of all, how do you win? Well, essentially, the less time it takes you to finish the race, the higher you finish. Pretty simple. But then there is the difference between a simple stage and an individual time trial. What about the fact that riders ride for teams? Does that mean anything? Do these guys make any money for winning and, if so, how much? What are these cars driving up next to the riders and what do they give the riders? What is this nonsense about sprinting bonuses and mountain points? And these ceremonial colored jerseys? The yellow jersey, the green jersey, the red and white jersey that looks like maple tree vomit. What do they mean? And what the HELL is a peloton?

If you want answers to these questions, check out the Wikipedia article. As for the peloton, let us clear up this ridiculous word right now. Peloton shares an etymological origin with the English word platoon, literally meaning ball, but used in reference to the group, pack, or bunch of riders that forms during a road bicycle race. While it would seem paradoxical that a bunch of guys trying to beat each other in a race would want to race in a group, there are certain advantages to it that can only be understood by reading this.

I think I may follow it this year. If nothing else it will give me encouragement in my own biking adventure. Besides, it is just astonishing to watch these guys drive at close to the Timmins municipal speed limit for hours at a time, over 21 days, through 3500 km of unforgiving terrain. It gives one greater appreciation for the miraculous nature of the human body.

Graduation

Sacha had his first of many graduations today. Well, I guess not really his first. He officially graduated from scraping his knuckles and knees to being a full-fledged upright H. sapiens. That’s right. Sacha took his first steps today! It was only 5 steps, but it was a momentous occasion. Sarah and I reacted so loudly that Sacha got scared and realized mommy was no longer holding him. He then plopped on his bum and proceeded to have a meltdown. But it was beautiful nonetheless.