My response to Leiby Kletzy’s murder

This post first appeared today on Mamamia – check it out here, there are lots of comments!

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Headlines in newspapers online are written to make you click on them. When I saw the picture of Leiby Kletzy with the words “Lost boy killed after asking for help” I knew what was to come.

Not the story so much, which is horrifying and heartbreaking. I too, have only one son and have three daughters to the Kletzy family’s four. The death of a child is a tragedy and reading of this little boy’s death made my chest constrict and heart ache. It would for anyone, parent or non-parent alike. However, it wasn’t reading the story that I was dreading; it is the change in society over the next few days.

For the next week I can expect several people to say directly to my daughter, in my presence, not to trust anybody, to never talk to strangers.  They’ll tell me, in front of my daughter, how sad it is that you just never know where the next psycho lives and what a shame we live in a society where I can never, ever, let my child out of my sight.

People who know I believe in the ‘free range’ philosophy of raising children will make a point to contact me or send me the link. See, do you see? This is what happens when a child walks home alone.

Because even though it isn’t true, it seems like it sometimes. The SMH headline contains two messages : every child is in danger and never ask for help from strangers. Newspapers don’t run on being objective and calm, newspapers run on papers sold and clicks online. A child’s death is news, even if you have to get it from the other side of the globe. Very few papers will point out that you are more likely to die from a lightning strike or choking on a BBQ sausage that have your child abducted by a stranger then murdered. There is very little in society more life threatening than putting your child in a car and driving them around, yet we ignore it. We don’t weigh risk objectively.

It really took me by surprise the first time someone gave my daughter stranger danger advice. By now, though, my default response is to immediately squat down next to my five year old daughter and say “Don’t listen to this person. If someone is making you feel uncomfortable, talk to the nearest adult. If you are lost, talk to the nearest adult. You can trust them.”

As horrible as Leiby Kletxy’s death is, he was found because the community went all out to help search for the missing boy. The good people in this story outweigh the bad person by thousands to one. We do live in a community. Almost everyone is good. Tragedy happens, yes, but it is thankfully rare. When my daughter leaves the house to walk to a friend’s house, I don’t tell her to watch out for strangers, I tell her to watch out for cars and wave to everyone – to build her own community.

Because communities keep us safe.

Modern Feats of Strength for the Modern Dad

Dads are pretty freaking awesome. Tough bastards too. I know its hard to see, when compared to men of ages past. Sure, ancient man is what we’ve been trying to beat out of men for the last four decades or so (I mean, Hercules might be muscular oiled chest and leather with dashing hair but he’s also Mr I-killed-my-wife-and-kids, you know) but we’re constantly held up against such men, and the movie starts who play them. Time for us blokes to fight back.

Can the modern, civilised Dad, also be metaphorically the strapping hero-of-old? I say yes. If fact, modern man undertakes feats that would make yea-who-sails-across-the-sea-to-attack-countries-backed-by-actual-live-Gods tremble.

Now King Arthur, he had it easy. I mean, on one hand he dies from a wound inflicted by his son, Mordred – well, son/nephew and here’s a hint for free if it is not already obvious: never fuck your sister – but on the other hand, he ruled the entire country just because he pulled a giant sword out of a stone. But if someone said “How about a super sharp knife to your nutsack?” he’d quiver in his chain mail. Yet Modern Dads worldwide step up to their doctors for vasectomies every day. Instead of a sword pulled from the round stone – a sword thrust into two stones*.

My personal feat status: The Reverse King Arthur: 1 to Idle over the men of steel.

Returning to Hercules, he had to complete twelve feats of strength. Pretty tough, until you consider he had help. From Gods. For fuck’s sake, he was half God himself, which is a massive cheat in my book. How can I compete?

After all, my status in bed aside, I’m no God.

Yeah, let that sentence can hang as it’s own paragraph for a second. It deserves it.

To touch on a point again, Hercules was required to complete the twelve feats of strength as penance for murdering his wife and children. Killing your wife and children? That’s a dog act if you ask me. Not tough at all. You want to know what’s tough, Hercules? Telling your wife that if you die, she’ll get lots of money. Now THAT is tough. What’s more, she knows that if I slip into a coma, she’ll get 75% of my current salary until I’m 65 as well as my death payout, which by itself is enough money to pay off the mortgage, childcare for three children for five years, and a little bit extra for bills and, I assume, her new gigolo.

My personal feat status: Feed the black dream**: a second to his idleness, none to heroes of the golden past.

Jason and his Argonauts spent a long time on boats. Months at sea, broken only by goat chasing (yes, goat chasing) and cliffs clashing and a lovely fleece jumper. Months at sea. All by themselves. All oiled. All muscles. All… Greek. Yet I bet not one offered to check the other for colon cancer. Not in the accepted medical method practiced today. Before you judge, obviously their society was more progressive than our socially, yet not more medically advanced. That said, it’s those kind of ‘before you do that, can I know your first name’ situations where real Modern Men come to the fore. Real Dads get checked.

My personal feat status: Holding the clashing cliffs apart: Not yet done. Well, there was “Lachlan” (I forget his Dr Surname) who checked me for internal bleeding when I got run over by a car in 1996. And “Frank”, who diagnosed me with haemorrhoids and gave me some pills that, to this day, gives my wife a violent fit of giggles when she remembers the look on my face immediately after ‘taking’ the medicine. I plan to complete the feat of holding the clashing cliffs apart in the next few years. Forty doth approach. Jason and his Argonauts: zero.

So I’m two from three. Strapping heroes: nada.

Have you, or has your man completed any of the Modern Dad feats of strength?

There are other feats of strength out there – The new Atlas (corporate hell), The new Sisyphus (engaged parenthood) and the new Beowulf (idle parenting, send your kids outside). Any more?

* The ‘sword’ may or may not be thrust into actual testes. But it gets uncomfortably close, like touch your eyeball uncomfortable. Except it’s not your eyeball, it’s your nuts.

** The Bride Stripped Bare reference, a book I unwittingly gave to my wife on a wedding anniversary.

Beth can’t smile for photos

Just today I did this survey: Can you spot the real smiles from the fake?

http://www.bbc.co.uk/science/humanbody/mind/surveys/smiles/

Real smiles and fake smiles come from different triggers in the brain. A real smile is unconscious. That’s why different muscles – especially around the eyes – move during real smiles, but often not with a fake smile.

Which is why my two-year-old daughter can’t smile for photos. She tries, of course, but she does an all-teeth exposed grimace instead. It’s a little disconcerting.

Almost!

But it does mean one thing.

All my two-year-old’s smiles are genuine.

Every time she sees me, every time she smiles, it is from actual pleasure. What can I say? I love it. I love that idea.

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Did you do the test? How many did you get right?

Potholes and colic: a conversation

Person one: Your local Council, how can I help?

Person two: I’d like to report an issue with the road outside my house.

P1: I’m the road engineer for the district, what seems to be the problem?

P2: There is a pothole outside my house.

P1: Impossible.

P2: Impossible?

P1: Potholes don’t exist.

P2: Potholes don’t exist?

P1: Correct.

P2: Perhaps I do not understand you correctly. You’re saying potholes don’t occur.

P1: Exactly.

P2: We’re talking about a small round hole in the road, ummmm, you drive over it and it sometimes damages the rim of your wheel?

 P1: Oh! Those exist all right, but they aren’t potholes.

P2: Everyone calls them potholes.

P1: Everyone is wrong.

P2: Everyone is wrong?

P1: You’re talking about a wearing of the asphaltic surface?

P2: Maybe, if that is what a pothole is called.

P1: Hmmmm… Maybe it is an exposure of the concrete base. Or a ravelled edged depression following fatigue cracks. Were there fatigue cracks prior to the ravelled edged depression forming?

P2: Cracks? I’m not sure. Maybe.

P1: I mean the point here is that ‘pothole’ is an anachronistic term that people think they know what’s happening, except they don’t.

P2: Don’t potholes form when water washes a bit underneath the road so a little ‘pot’ sized hole –

P1: I’d say more kettle-sized

P2: – pot sized hole forms and gets worse as more cars drive over it.

P1: Yes, but no. Sometimes it can be the sun. Expanding and contracting the asphaltic surface – quite common here in Australia.

P2: Whatever. So what do we do next? I really would like you to repair the wearing of the asphaltic surface. Or fix the exposure of the concrete base? Is it different fixes for the different problems?

P1: No, pretty much whatever it is we just come out and fill it up with some more asphalt. Works about ninety percent of the time. If it reappears, call me and we’ll come and have a more detailed look.

P2: Now, don’t take this the wrong way, I mean, I love road engineers and roads are great and I’m happy knowing you guys know your stuff…

P1: Go on

P2: But wouldn’t this conversation have gone a lot quicker if I’d said, “I have a pothole outside my house” and then you have said, “OK, we’ll come fill it in?”

P1: That conversation could never have happened.

P2: Why not?

P1: Potholes don’t exist.

P2: …

P1: {YAWN}

P2: My, that was a big yawn! Tired?

P1: Yes, sorry, I was up all night with my newborn.

P2: I’m a paediatrician! Anything I can help with?

P1: My child has colic.

P2: Impossible.

P1: Impossible?

P2: Colic doesn’t exist.

P1: Colic doesn’t exist?

P2: Correct.

P1: Perhaps I do not understand you correctly. You’re saying colic doesn’t exist.

P2: Exactly.

P1: We’re talking about an inconsolable screaming baby, ummmm, very fussy and farty?

P2: Oh! That happens all right, but it isn’t colic.

P1: Everyone calls it colic.

P2: Everyone is wrong.

P1: Everyone is wrong?

P2: We’re talking about an irritable nervous system?

P1: Maybe, if that what colic is called.

P2: Hmmmm… Maybe it is fourth trimester issues? It could even be a normal part of your child’s development. Is your child developing normally?

P1: Oh, I’m not sure. I think so.

P2: I mean the point here is that ‘colic’ is an anachronistic term that people think they know what’s happening, except they don’t.

P1: Doesn’t an upset stomach -

P2: Upset gastrointestinal system.

P1: – upset stomach cause colic?

P2: Yes, but no. Perhaps it is reflux? An ear infection? Ear infections are quite common here in Australia.

P1: Whatever. So what do you suggest I do? I would really like to solve the irritable nervous system. Or the fourth trimester issue. Is it different fixes for the different problems?

P2: No, pretty much whatever it is you should just use soothing measures plus stomach massaging and maybe try changing your diet. In a pinch, some parents find sips of mint tea helps too. Works ninety percent of the time. If the child keeps it up for longer than three hours a day or for several days in a row, come and see us and we’ll have a more detailed look.

P1: Now, don’t take this the wrong way, I mean, I love paediatricians and infant health is really important to me and I’m happy knowing you guys know your stuff…

P2: Go on.

P1: But wouldn’t this conversation have gone a lot quicker if I’d said “I have a colicky baby” and then you have said, “OK, try stomach massaging and stop eating cabbage?”

P2: That conversation would never have happened.

P1: Why not?

P2: Colic doesn’t exist.

OK, all jokes aside: someone tell me why it is so important to deny colic’s existence, given that colic is shorthand for a very upset baby.

Reviewing one thing at a time is for the weak. iPad 2, Thor and Nougat Eggs.

iPad 2 Review: Lighter, thinner and two shitty cameras.

I could stop right there. But I won’t. I must also mention it has a shitty speaker that only Garry Barker could love (oh wait, he does). Of course, for those of us not taking direct payments from Apple (or as in Garry’s case, simply unable to write an objective or credible sentence on the topic) I must point out that the speaker is worse – much worse – than the original iPad. Sure, there’s a volume button, but what the fuck is it for? The little bastard is either on full or on silent.

Also, when you turn the iPad 2 side on, it is still visible to the eye. Unacceptable in this day and age.

That said, the iPad 2 a fucking shiny piece of kit. The feel and heft of the thing are a nice improvement. The funny thing I’ve noticed is that iPad 1 owners lift it and say “oh nice” and first timers lift it and say “Hmmmm, still a little heavy”. Well, they can piss off. Yes, I’m talking directly to you.

The thing is a marvel that makes Xoom (or whatever it is called) owners wee a little. Consider this: the $5 Garageband app and a $30 connector gives you more recording and editing power than the Beatles ever had. That should make everyone wee a little, don’t you think?

iCab Mobile is a web browser that is everything Safari should be, but isn’t. Dropbox integration, downloads, nicely done tabs, fully screen mode and more add-ons that you can shake a stick at. If you haven’t got it, get it.

This thing is so close to being the ultimate personal computer. If ONLY you could, say, attach a file to an email, or get it to understand we spell colour with a u and that no, I didn’t want to write ‘shut’.

So the iPad 2: zero stars (well, five stars minus one for each shitty camera, minus one for side-on visibility and minus two for the speaker). Get one. Right now.

Thor (2011) Review: Another charming good-looking buff-as Aussie takes a role and eats it for breakfast before impregnating half the women in the audience (through a complicated method of getting them all worked up so they go home and jump their partners – the other half just file him into their spank bank).

Is it fun? Shit yeah. Swords, guns, fistfights and ice giants and the biggest hammer you have ever seen. Seriously, just let this dude into North Korea and problem solved. One of the big problem Superman and super-powered people movies have is making it interesting. After all, the guy is a fucking God, who’s going to fuck with him at the pub? Even with those ludicrous blonde eyebrows. Did you see his hammer? Odin says the hammer has the power to destroy but also a greater power to build. I’m not so sure, for one, at no time in the movie does Thor do any kind of building with the giant come-fuck-you hammer and secondly, the tool that has the power to destroy and power to build is an allen key. Which makes a less interesting movie but can take up a whole weekend. And destroy a marriage. But I digress.

Kenneth Brenner, who made one of my top five movies “Much Ado About Nothing” written by some toff (and I believe if I wore a t-shirt that said “Much Ado About Nothing is one of my favourite movies” I’d get laid by random women more (that, or “I like watching Grey’s Anatomy”) – more as in, more often than never) makes Thor (to return to my point, lost two paragraphs ago) interesting by surrounding him by other super tough bastards, then of course, stripping his power. Honestly, it’s more interesting than it sounds.

Overall, Thor gets five stars. It’s good fun, great personable lead, and your date will most likely have sex with you after the movie. Go Aussies.

Nougat Eggs: The Egg of Eggs. Yet let down by freedom.

Look, I’m all for fair trade chocolate but let me tell you, slave-kids made great chocolate eggs. Not like the muck you get these days. Unions, I tell you: fuckers.

For example: take the mighty Nougat egg. Lovely blue wrapper with china-made little chicken on top. Chocolate coating filled with – of course – nougat. In my day, slave children filled it with white nougat with a centre of yellow nougat – just like an egg. Those slave children, with boot on neck, gave me a happy childhood. These days, it’s just sort of mixed yellow and white nougat. Sure, it might taste more like freedom but when was freedom worth more than nicely separated coloured nougat? Never.

Nougat egg: Four stars. Get one.

Tony Abbott hates marriage, the monarchy, God and Australia

Tony Abbott has suggested that the PM shouldn’t attend the marriage of Prince William and Kate because the PM doesn’t believe in marriage, the monarchy or God.

Putting aside what this says about Mr Abbott’s maturity (which I shall endeavour to sink below in this post) and the current state of Australian federal politics, the statement does require some analysis.

First, let’s look at the surface arguments and see if they stack up.

1) Marriage: The PM’s marital status is of no bearing to her opinions of marriage. Her statements are the polar opposite of what the leader of the opposition suggests: the PM strongly supports marriage and has said so many times. I may not agree with her definition, as she defines it as being between a man and a woman only, but her stance on marriage is identical to Tony Abbott’s.

2) The Monarchy: Prince William will be our future head of state, and is the grandson of our current head of state. As Australian is a democratic constitutional monarchy, our PM should attend this important diplomatic event as our representative as leader of our country as part of the Commonwealth of Nations.

3) God: The Australian constitution forbids a religious test for public office. It doesn’t matter what faith or lack of the Prime Minister has, the PM can and should attend this wedding.

So the arguments don’t stand up. And look simply like a cheap ‘zing’ he couldn’t resist. But what does this reveal about Tony Abbott’s true agenda? He may not realise, but Tony Abbott has accidentally exposed his hatred of marriage, the monarchy, God and Australia and his future plans to destroy us.

Marriage: As Tony is suggesting that, regardless of their support for the institution of marriage, only married people can attend a wedding – what does that mean? Divorced: Out. Widowed: Out. Unmarried? Um… that means Prince William and Kate are out. Neither is married. Ergo Tony wants to destroy the institution of marriage – by preventing unmarried couples presenting themselves at a wedding ceremony. Insidious.

The Monarchy: Tony is suggesting the Prime Minister of the Commonwealth of Australia not attend the wedding of our future King. You may bury it deep, Tony, but your hatred of the lovely Queen Elizabeth, Queen of Australia, is showing. Once, twenty years ago, her corgi bit her, and now this? That makes me sad because she seems lovely. For shame, Tony.

God: By expressing that only the Church of England faithful attend the wedding (and also neatly excluding himself from attendance, more examples of his hatred of our Queen and future King) he is expressing the opinion that our future King’s God is false. He hates the Church of England God. He hates the Jewish God. We know he hates the Muslim God. While our PM is simply a non-believer in any God, he hates other Gods. No doubt this is simply the outward expression of a man deeply committed to removing religion from all walks of life, following his bitter disappointment of not being good enough to become a Priest.

Australia: Australia is a pluralist society with a secular government. Tony hates that. It’s obvious. Taken at face value, it is obvious he plans to only allow Catholics to hold office (little boys FOR EVERYONE!), sneers at Jews who attend Christian weddings and instead of giving everyone a fair go, will make personal attacks on your beliefs and deny you opportunities as he see fit.

Lastly, he can’t see an Australian ever leading Australia. Which means he hates you. You’re not good enough to lead Australia because of where you were born.

There you have it. Tony Abbott hates marriage, the monarchy, God but most of all, he hates Australia, the Australian way of life and every unmarried non-Catholic female Australian. I just chucked in female. For shits and giggles. Probably true but.

(Update: actually he didn’t say the PM shouldn’t attend, he said “She may not believe in God, the monarchy or marriage but there will be a royal wedding bounce” but I don’t care – please see my maturity disclaimer.

Also, he obviously still hates the idea of an unmarried Atheist, which means he hates a pluralistic Australia and lastly, I question if he’d use any of those words if our PM was a republic-supporting Jewish man. Fuck you, Tony, fuck you)

The Siren

This post has two sources: one, the excellent, sadly abandoned blog of tweep OfManyMen which her dates get special nicknames. Mine gets ‘The Siren’. I recommend you start at her earliest post, and read through. The second source is the post over on Mamamia today about worst dates ever.

The cat wrapped in plastic

If I had to pick my worst dates ever, there are two that come immediately to mind. The runner-up was a simple dating noob error. In 1993, when advised that Four Weddings and a Funeral was all sold out, looked over the shoulder of the counter girl at the list of movies and said, “What’s Bad Boy Bubby like?” Counter person answered, “It’s kinda a comedy” and I responded “Sweet”. My date beamed happily. For anyone out there – incest and cats rolled up in glad wrap do NOT make a great first date.

The Siren

However, the worst, hands down nightmare evening of my life occurred a few years later. I can’t see exactly how I could have avoided this one and still shake my head at it sometimes. That said, the story is one that can still get me a few beers at the pub.

I’m no Don Juan. (Surely you jest, I hear you say, but please, it’s true). When I worked for IKEA, I was paid monthly. Paid monthly on twenty-eight grand a year. Rent was exactly fifty percent of my after-tax earnings. I had a well-defined routine called good-eat-fortnight-bad-eat-fortnight. Good eat fortnight involved alcohol, restaurants, meat and good times. Bad eat fortnight involved old carrots, a life saving ten-kilo bag of rice and a fuckload of soy sauce.

I worked in the customer service office, which was next to the staff entry. So every day, I flirted with a delicious young lady – let’s call her The Siren – as she started and ended her shifts. We flirted at lunch. We flirted at the pub after work. There was no rush, it was good for the soul.

Then one day she quits. Endless days of sly smiles are coming to an end. I ask her out on a date. She accepts. The problem: It’s bad-fucking-eat-fortnight. The CC is maxed already. I’ve got enough in the bank for smokes and a schooey. In other words – I’m fucked.

So I come clean and admit it. I tell her I’m completely skint. And I suggest a two date action plan. The first date is fish & chips on the beach with a reasonable bottle of wine. Easy. Cheap. Fun. No pressure. The second date, should she choose to follow on, would be during good-eat-fortnight. A nice restaurant, a band or a movie, whatever she likes. She thinks the plan is adorable. I may not be Don Juan, but I can occasionally luck it out.

On the afternoon of the planned first date, she calls me up. She’s got her folk’s car; we can drive to an even nicer beach than the local one. A beach I know is near a famous spot to go ‘parking’. The evening is looking better than ever. The siren song is heady stuff.

She shows up. She has a counter plan. There is a BBQ at her place. Her parent’s place. I express a negative desire to meet her parents. That’s just it, she says, they’ve got tickets to a play in town, they’ll all be gone. There will just be free food, free alcohol and – an empty house.

Sign. Me. Up. I’ll even save twenty for another pack of smokes if I’m lucky.

– Is that singing I hear? Strap me to the mast –

Perhaps my first sense of unease was the drive out there. The Siren drives like a maniac. On the way she tells me a story about how she met Hoous, a guy who works in our warehouse. She was walking down the street, he was driving by. He yells out of the car window “Show us your bra”. She’s impressed by his sweet ride. She shows him her bra. They start talking.

That’s a… nice story, I say.

We arrive at her house. The place is packed. Packed to the rafters. I shuffle uncertainly at the gate. What about the theatre I ask? Probably leaving soon, she says. So I meet her sisters first. They all giggle and be sister like. Going out soon, I ask? Nope, they say. Free grog, mate, are you kidding?

I meet her Dad. Don’t fucking touch my daughter or I’ll smash you he says as he crushes my hand in a handshake followed by a large smile and “Beer?” I accept an ice cold VB.

I meet her Mum. She is super welcoming. She briefly discusses all the mistakes her daughter has made with men and finishes with a winning smile and “At least you’re not a Leb”! I laugh ah-ha-ha nervously. She looks at me oddly then invites me to watch Jeopardy with her on the telly.

Which is how I spent an hour on a Friday night watching game shows and then Nine News with my – a girl who I wouldn’t even suggest was my girlfriend – date’s Mum. The Siren comes and sits next to me, holds my hand and plays footsies. This isn’t quite what I’d planned.

After the news finishes, I suggest we bail. Perhaps we could go somewhere less crowded, say a pub? I know a place, she says. I’ve got to go there anyway to drop off some stuff I borrowed.

So she gets me to pile a shovel and a bag into the boot of her car. I’m so fucking relieved to be getting out of there. The Dad waves me off with an elbow to the ribs and a wink. I’m honestly freaking out. I follow her voice, hypnotised by horror and unable to gain any control of the evening.

We arrive at her mate’s place. We knock on the door and an old bloke answers. She introduces me “This is Idle, we’re on a date but I thought we’d drop off this stuff”. I hold up the shovel and bag as an explanation. Come inside, he says, Tony’s out back.

We go and sit in their living room. Tony is surly at the interruption of the footy. He’s a big bloke too. For all the ‘Tony’s a good bloke” talk on the way over, he looks stupid and very dangerous. I’m not sure when I realised I was sitting in the living room of The Siren’s ex-boyfriend but it was a dry throat moment. She was practically rubbing me in the nose of her dated-for-four-years-broke-up-last-month ex. I could tell he just wanted to punch the shit out of me. It was an awkward ninety minutes. His Dad seemed nice enough and served biscuits.

So by the time we left, it was well late. I was shell-shocked. We drive back to my place. She pulls up, turns off the motor and looks over at me. She looks great. Fantastically inviting even. She’s reaching to unbuckle her seat belt. The spell breaks.

Thanks for the great evening, I say and without even a goodbye peck on the cheek I’m out the car, into the secure – oh so beautiful and secure – lobby of my apartment block. A week or two later she visits work. I’m still unable to process the evening and coward that I am, I can’t even look her in the eye. She seems confused. Two weeks later she’s got a new boyfriend, but in the meantime I’ve had eight beers on the re-telling of my skirmish with a Siren.

Tony and I never become friends. I’ve still never seen Bad Boy Bubby a second time, but remain forever curious – was it really that bad in comparison?

Odd skills and forest days

I guess it’s probably an odd skill for a layman like myself to be able to simply glance at the cross section of a head of a twenty-four week old foetus and tell if the ventricles are normal sized or large, but I can. It’s a skill I’d prefer to be ignorant of, the same way I’m still not sure what the red and blue colours on an ultrasound are. Blood flow? Pressure indicators? Something else? In any case, the colours have never been as important to me as the ventricles.

So the end result was I knew everything was well even before the doctor confirmed it with actual words of “Twin one’s head is perfectly normal”. And I took what felt like my first clean breath in two and a half years.

My boy is going to be normal.

It’s good news day, people. Background stress is way down. Happiness is way up.

Let me quickly add here that Miss Minus Three Months is also perfect. Twenty-four weeks of pregnancy is something to celebrate in any case. It’s the unofficial ‘viable’ week. Every week from now on is a week in the bank. Genetic tests clear: check. No signs of enlarged ventricles at 24 weeks: check.

Colour me chuffed.

One day I’ll discuss a post about whether Mr Minus Three Months is a replacement for Alfred (short answer: yes) but such belly navel gazing is best left for a more somber day than today. Today is for celebrating. Today is for looking out and seeing the forest. Today is for cuddling giggling daughters.

Hope you have a great day, people. And yeah, that wasn’t in sarcasm font.

Passionate, yes. Fanatical, no.

“All fanatics are the same. They make unprovable claims and distant dire predictions. Then they victimise and vilify those who don’t follow their own conveniently changeable beliefs, promising a justified violent vengeance unless the deniers repent.”

The above was posted in response to my Facebook status “Don’t forget today is Punch a Climate Skeptic in the Face Day. And if you see one of those anti-vaccinators too, punch them one for me too. After all, there really isn’t any difference”.

I made a similar comment on Twitter.

Let me say that I deserve to be pulled up for the ‘punch in the face’ comment. Violence in political or scientific debate, of course, is unacceptable. When people suggest punching our Prime Minister in the face (or slapping her, which some seem more appropriate for a woman) I take offence. Punch in the face? My bad.

So on to the rest of the response. I must admit, the thing that caught my eye first is claim that a fanatic has “conveniently changeable beliefs’. There are two comments I’d make about this, the first being I would have thought it was the opposite. For example, I’ve never heard of religious fanatics as being the ones who change their minds.

I’m not a fanatic. But I’ll cop that I am happy to change my mind, but not a my convenience. Should science consensus shift and state that global warming is not occurring, I’ll follow along. But not before.

That hasn’t happened yet though, which takes me to the second part of the ‘conveniently changeable beliefs’ statement which suggests that climate science has changed it’s story several times over the years. As far as I can tell, climate science has been completely consistent.

1. As a whole, the world is warming.
2. The warming is predicted to continue into the future.
3. Greenhouse gases, mostly carbon dioxide and methane, are currently driving this change
4. It is highly likely human activity is contributing significantly to this change

The warming activity is predicted to drive several things, but to give an example one of the impacts are increased extreme heat, including increase occurrence of drought, tropical cyclones and increased precipitation. While drought and increased precipitation might seem contradictory, we are talking about global impacts.

So should science change and the consensus be that global warming is not occurring, I’ll be wrong about one of the statements above.

But that doesn’t make climate skeptics smarter. Currently the skeptic stance is ‘It’s just weather’. In other words, there is no climate change occurring. A year or two ago it was the sun, until it wasn’t. 2005′s favourite of skeptics was “Climate change stopped in 1998″. We don’t actually hear that one anymore, because 2005 turned out hotter than 1998. As did 2008. Before that it was we’re actually cooling. Sometimes the claim is that it isn’t us. Or clouds will negate the warming. Or something. Basically, every few months skeptics’ beliefs change from “It’s not happening” to “It’s not us” to “It’s happening, but it isn’t bad” to “It’s happening, but it’s too hard” (with the occasional non-scientific political objection thrown in such as the awesome “It’s a communist conspiracy to bring down Western civilisation!” as suggested by former Liberal Senator Nick Mitchen).

In comparison, climate science is like a rock against skeptics splashy attempts to discredit.

A fanatic is not a person who changes their mind, but a person who never changes their mind, only their argument. The one who says “I don’t care that I was wrong, I didn’t really mean that I met something else you haven’t looked at so that means you’re wrong” – that’s a fanatic. Science on the other hand says “What you say is very interesting. Let me check your facts and see if you are right”.

So if I am wrong, and climate change isn’t occurring, I’ll admit it. But I’ll be wrong only about only one thing. Climate skeptics will be right about one thing – by sheer luck – and wrong about a dozen or more other things. Just like Mel Gibson in “Conspiracy Theory” – he discovers one of his conspiracy theories is right, he just doesn’t know which one – the climate skeptic, if right, cannot today tell you which random belief he or she has disproves climate change. They just ‘know it’.

I’m not a scientist. Chances are, you aren’t either. Neither of us have the training or ability to dissect three decades of climate change science. Neither of us can predict the future. Once we get to the future, neither of us can roll it back, make a different decision and see if it changes the outcome. While conspiracy theories are very, very fun as teenagers, as adults we must make decisions based on the best data available. And consider not just sunny skies, but scenarios less bright.

In our household budget where we list our net worth, we don’t just have current assets versus current debt, we have a column that tells us our net worth if our assets were worth 20% more against current debt and also if our assets were 50% less in value against current debt.

This gives us a bigger picture of our finances for when we make financial decisions. The hopeful, the best data available and the cautious views.

But I digress: back to climate change. The the data and scientific consensus is currently behind man-made climate change. It has been for decades. It’s not about unproven claims and distant dire predictions. It’s about adults making decisions based on current information.

Fanatics need not apply.

Children aren’t shoes. But they are still a choice.

Why is it when I read Miranda Devine’s latest article about the ‘commodification of children’ (and more on that later) do I get the feeling that she doesn’t really care about children. Not about unborn children. Not about living children. What she’s more concerned about is making her choices the only option available. Actually, it is probably even less than that: she’s just happy heaping scorn and judgement on those not lucky enough to have her life.

Infertile? Poor? Caring for a disabled child? Bad luck you fuckers!

It’s telling that during her despicable rant she never mentions support for disabled children once they’re born. She never mentions that poor Maia Comas’ parents received NO help. They were isolated. From family. From friends. When they uttered the words to child services that Miranda uses to condemned them, the simple words of “I can’t cope” and asked for help and potential options, including euthanasia, does Miranda detail the social worker’s response? No – because the social worker did nothing. Nothing. The social worker walked away and left them by themselves. Why doesn’t Miranda mention this fact? Because she isn’t interested in helping these people, only vilifying them.

As for my take, perhaps it’s not that the social worker didn’t want to ring bells, it was more that there were no bells to ring. As with parents, social workers have no choices when it comes to disabled children – there is nothing they can do to help. No foster parents. No adoptive parents. No temporary accommodation. No assistance whatsoever.

Miranda Devine considers parents with disabled children to not be worthy of assistance. To her they are simply guilty of not considering the full horror of what Rett Syndrome might mean to their lives before deciding to have a child. She sneers at their hopes for a healthy child. Got a disabled child? Bad fucking luck, hippies. Want support? Not with my tax dollars, she cries. School? Well, there’s the school chaplain!

Miranda is against gender selection. She’s against abortion. She’s against IVF. But not against adoption? Talk about children as commodities. You can pick the gender, race, eye colour of children. You can insist on no genetic defects. If you don’t think the child IS GOOD ENOUGH LOOKING, you can back out. It’s just like… like buying a pair of shoes! If Miranda really thought this stuff was immoral, adoption would be blind choice – boy, girl, healthy, disabled, from any race, attractive, unattractive – you put your hand up and get the next in line because that is the kid who needs it the most and been waiting the longest.

See, Miranda isn’t really worried about the commodification of children or a buyer’s market – what she cares about that the market is created by methods that agree with her sensibilities. Simply, if you don’t want to give birth to a baby, don’t have sex. It doesn’t matter what happens to the child afterwards – adoption, poverty, abuse, whatever – as long as the woman is forced to have a child. If the ‘market options’ involve a women exercising control over their fertility – that is immoral. Double standards don’t exist for Miranda.

Hell, she’s even despises childcare. Women: sex means you have that baby and stay at home!

Come on, Miranda – let’s hear it – put your hand up and say “I’ll foster a disabled kid” or “I’ll adopt a disabled newborn”. What’s that? What IS that sound? BIRDS FUCKING TWEETING, that’s what that noise is.

Though, I can’t say I blame you. Nobody starts out to create a new life hoping for a disabled child as a result. Yeah, that’s fucking cold to say it out loud, but what does the sentence “I don’t care what I have, as long as it’s healthy” really mean if not that?

So news flash, Miranda: life ain’t a fucking rainbow of joy. Not everyone is capable of caring for a disabled child. Some parents, at some point, might prefer a child of a particular gender over another. Some couples, at some point, might not be able to afford a child and decide on abortion. Some parents might discover genetic defects and not want a child to live that life. Some women, once they have children, will want to return to work. Some will stay at home. Sometimes, contraception isn’t perfect. Some couples have a hard time falling pregnant, but are still driven to want children. Some of them chose adoption. Some chose assisted reproduction technologies like IVF or surrogacy. And yes, some just move on.

There isn’t one – right – choice. There isn’t one – right – way to want children. Or raise them.

And if you don’t agree with child euthanasia, tell me what are you doing to prevent the scenario. No, no, besides sneering I mean.

Parents want the best for their child. Parents are entitled to decide what quality of life they are happy for their child to have and sometimes, the quality of life that is even possible is less than the parents can accept. What then?

If they can’t cope and you won’t help, where does that leave the child? But I forget, you don’t actually care about the child. Not the way parents do.

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