Musings of a New Father

If you were wondering why I haven't posted anything in the past few months, it's because I was busy
(1) indie publishing my novel, The Invisible Id,
(2) graduating from BYU with a degree in nutritional science,
and (3) having a FREAKING BABY.

I mean, no, I didn't personally push the kid out my cha cha (I don't even have a cha cha), but I still "had" her, in a sense.

Anyway, I guess I'm writing today because I want to share a few of the things I've learned since Elsie was born, so here goes!

Babies are terrorists.
And they aren't even sure of their own demands. I've heard this said before I became a father, but I thought it was just a joke. Nope! Babies are fixated on the basic necessities of life, and they don't care about you beyond your ability to feed and comfort them. They scream and scream and scream until they feel comfortable, and it doesn't matter if it's noon or 3am—they don't give a sizzling sassafras.

Baby quarantine is a thing.
For some reason when you have a baby, everyone thinks you "need time alone" with the baby to "bond" or something.

No.

Having a newborn baby in my house is the single most stressful thing that has ever happened to me, and I've been held at knife-point by a hooligan in Brazil. If I don't have support from friends and family, I want to cry my brains out. My wife is an introvert and she feels the same way. Who the hell decided that child-rearing should be done in isolation? Humans are social creatures, for goodness sake. COME TO MY HOUSE.

Five hours is an extravagant amount of sleep.
When Elsie was first born, she needed to be fed every two hours. Now, three months later, she needs to be fed every three to four hours. But sometimes, and if we're super lucky, at night even, she'll sleep for four or five hours. And then we'll get to sleep for four or five hours. It's amazing. I love it.

If she's crying anyway, I might as well have some fun.
Sometimes babies just cry. Uncontrollably. And there's nothing you can do to stop them. In these sorts of situations, I can do one of two things: internally scream as my brain implodes from the feral noises of my spawn, or be a dick to my daughter.

It's harmless, really. If I've done everything I can think of to calm her down and it isn't working, maybe I'll take the pacifier that she spits out every two seconds and poke her in the nose with it for a couple of minutes. Maybe I'll launch her in the air repeatedly, exclaiming, "To the moon!!" Maybe I'll pinch her nose so her screams become amusingly nasally. There are lots of things you can do to make a frustrating situation funny. If I'm not in the mood for any of that, though, it always helps to just go outside and clear my head.

Cuteness makes you forget.
Even though my life is way more stressful than it used to be, and Elsie produces all sorts of sounds, smells, and fluids that I don't particularly like, it's definitely worth it. I love my little girl so much. I love her little smile, her sassy eyebrows, and our babbling conversations. I'm so proud that she can already roll over, and every time she grabs something I think she's the smartest little nugget a father could ask for. I can't wait to see her grow up, and I'm grateful that I even get that opportunity.

We might adopt our next one though. ;)

How Scientists Are Withholding Information from the Public

The following is something that frustrates me:

This week in my nutritional biochemistry class, we were required to write research papers and complete peer reviews of each others' papers. It scares me that, in this senior capstone class, my peers are still making rookie writing mistakes like using huge, redundant phrases where one word would do, or by misplacing commas of all things.

"But Ethan," you might say, "they're science majors! They aren't studying writing on the side like you are!"

"True," I would respond, "but shut up I'm still talking."

Many science majors, after graduating, inevitably will go on to do research in their field. And what do they do after that? They write scientific papers and get their research published. This means that they'll be writing fairly frequently, assuming they don't get fired. If they're going to be writing so much, shouldn't they be trained in writing?

Unfortunately, many universities don't require much in the way of training for these future writers. For most science majors, BYU itself only requires an additional 3 credit hours of advanced written communication after the freshman writing class—and its science-specific writing class is only recommended, so science majors may not even take it.

"So they suck at writing—what does it matter?" you might ask.

"It matters to who reads their writing," I'd say. "Now stop interrupting me."

Obviously I have to read sucky science writing, along with other science majors. Fortunately I've learned how to dissect relevant information from scientific articles ever since I began studying nutrition. But, even though I can do it, it still annoys me. Besides, science majors aren't the ones who are being hurt by this—unless you count the dead brain cells we used up trying to make sense of it all. You see, we still actually learn this cryptic information.

Poor science writing really ends up hurting the general public.

The general public doesn't know how to dissect relevant information out of these scientific articles like I do. Even if science writers had perfect grammar, they still use a lot of jargon and technical terms, simply making scientific writing inaccessible to the public. This is a problem (1) because the public won't be able to understand cutting-edge research that pertains to them, and (2) because poor writing leaves them ignorant and frustrated with scientists. I think it's obvious why my first point is a problem, especially when it comes to the health sciences, but let me explain my second point a little further.

Typically, scientists write for other scientists. They don't bother explaining things in terms the layman could understand, and even if they did, they often write in such an aesthetically confounding way that readers are hard-pressed to find any glimmer of meaning. Take this passage as an example:

"An intraperitoneal glucose tolerance test was performed in the overnight fasted offspring by administering glucose (250g/l) intraperitoneally as a bolus, at a dose of 1g/kg body weight" (Lagishetty, 2008).

If you're confused, this is what that means:

"After withholding food overnight, we injected a piece of glucose (250 grams per liter) into the rat pups' abdomens at a dose of 1 gram per kilogram of their body weight to see how well their cells would use the glucose."

That is a dramatic example, but it isn't anywhere close to the worst science writing I've ever read. Fortunately some science writers are gifted and write clearly, but "some" isn't enough.

This is the age of information. Scientists need to learn how to make their information accessible, or the public will continue to disregard it. Take vaccinations as an example. People fear what they don't understand—they distrust it. The majority of the public doesn't understand the science and research behind vaccinations. They instead turn to things that they do understand, even if those things are false. Now, this isn't exactly the scientists' fault, but they aren't helping either.

Yes, people in general should be more educated in the sciences. They should trust doctors and researchers—experts—when their evidence proves something right or wrong. For the best results, however, these experts need to make their research more accessible and more understandable. They need to be better trained in writing.

They need to stop making me suffer through their papers.