I've been a bit quiet again, not because there's anything catastrophically bad, or ecstatically good happening in the World of Bears, but rather because my mind has largely been frothing and ranting to itself about the stupidity of my customers who refuse to engage their brains. What I've been wanting to do is illustrate the utter idiocy with which I'm faced in a way that other people will understand, and yet I know that if I simply repeated, verbatim, what the customer has asked for, I'm not sure I'd get very far. I probably have two or three friends who would laugh immediately. And everyone else would look blankly at me, as though I were a few sandwiches short of a picnic. And then I thought, "hold on a minute PhysicsBear, you took an entire course in science communication at University, and you keep banging on about how anybody can understand science, this should be something you can explain."
So here goes....
I'm going to start with the easy stuff. The stuff that you know without evening knowing that you know it. Because there's a lot of science just hanging around, minding its own business, not causing any trouble, that you do know really. For instance - the boiling point of water* is 100 degrees Celsius. See, that's not so hard is it?
Now we'll move on to the next one. Humidity. There's water vapour in the air all the time. Water vapour is the gaseous form of water. Just like ice is the solid form of water. If there's water vapour in the air, that gives it what we normally call humidity. For instance, it's a damp day here in the fens, and the relative humidity** is 94%.
We've made a pretty good start already, and to get to the heart of what I'm going to explain, all we need to do is look hard at those two facts and think about their consequences.
1. The boiling point of water is 100°C
2. At 8°C there is 7.8g/m3 of gaseous water in the air**.
Can you see where I'm going yet? I'll help out. A substance does not need to be above its boiling point for some part of it to be in its gas phase, The air around you is definitely not above 100°C, and yet there is just as definitely gaseous water in that air. Admittedly, the higher the temperature, the more water there will be in gaseous form - if we had 94% humidity on a day where it happened to be 24°C instead of 8°C, then there'd be more like 20g/m3 of water vapour in the air, but the point remains - a substance doesn't have to be above its boiling point to be a gas. However, the closer to boiling point it gets, the more of it will be a gas.
Step one of today's lesson is now complete.
Step two is marginally less likely to be part of your everyday experience, but it might still be something you know, as it relies on one of those factoids that occasionally get batted around: if you try and boil and egg at the top of Everest, you will find it takes longer, because water at the top of Everest boils at approximately 70°C. And why is that? Is it because it's terribly excited to have climbed a big mountain? No. Is it because it's closer to the sun? No. Is it because gravity is trying to persuade it back down the mountain again, so it's in a hurry? No. It's because the air pressure is lower. The boiling point of water decreases with decreasing pressure. In fact, the boiling point of any liquid decreases with decreasing pressure.
Now, we can have a go at adding step one and step two together. It's getting pretty exciting isn't it?
Step 1 told us that a liquid doesn't have to be above boiling point for some portion of it to have turned to a gas and that the closer to a liquid's boiling point you get, the more of it will be in the gas phase.
Step 2 told us that a liquid's boiling point decreases at decreasing pressure.
So now we could take a wild deductive leap, and notice that as we lower the pressure, for any liquid, we'll lower the boiling point, and more and more of that liquid will move into the gas phase. We can take this to quite absurd levels. Sticking with water, if we drop the pressure to only 1% of atmospheric pressure, then water will boil at approximately 7°C. Drop it to 0.1% of atmospheric pressure and the boiling point has plunged to a distinctly chilly -24°C. And to be really silly, we'll drop the pressure to where the ion source of my mass spectrometer operates, which is 0.00001% of atmospheric pressure, at which point water boils at -101°C.
Given your, now enormous, wealth of knowledge about temperature, pressure, boiling point and liquids-turning-to-gases, I have no doubt that you've immediately spotted that a really vast amount of water will have turned to a gas at room temperature once its boiling point is a paltry -101°C.
So now I can tell you what my idiot customer has said.
He wishes to analyse a compound with a boiling point of 350°C. He has told us he wishes to heat our ion source to 350°C to make sure his compound remains as a gas.
Tell me, dear friends, do we really think that at 0.00001% of atmospheric pressure the boiling point of his compound is still 350°C? Do we even think that his compound needs to be above its boiling point for some of it to be a gas? Do we already, in a few short paragraphs, have a better grasp of the thermodynamics of gases than this alleged "expert"? And we haven't even started on the fact that some significant parts of my beautiful scientific instrument will melt at 350°C, thus rendering it utterly incapable of analysing anything at all, no matter what its boiling point. Do we now cease wondering why PhysicsBear could be found literally banging her head on her desk in frustration when she received another email from this muppet last week?
* For the pedants among you, and for the sake of future paragraphs, this is the boiling point of pure water at standard atmospheric pressure.
** Relative humidity is a technical term and in this case it means that the air is holding 94% of the maximum amount of water vapour that it can hold at the current temperature. That actually works out to be that there is about 7.8g of gaseous water in every cubic metre of air here at the moment.
Friday, 27 April 2018
Tuesday, 17 April 2018
Not Going Out
So here we are, not going out. Not having a babysitter. Not leaving LittleBear. Not following all the unsolicited advice I received about making sure I "kept at it" and that I didn't let one little set-back put me off. Here I am, not believing that all I have to do is what everyone else does, and all will be fine.
It's two weeks now since we went out and LittleBear crumbled. And since then, he's managed to find some reason that a parent is required every evening, except the evenings when there was someone else sleeping in his room with him*. We've had additional wee-ing, additional poo-ing, itchiness, pain, being too hot, being too cold, having a nightmare (despite not being asleep), not being able to get to sleep, being worried, having a sore finger. You name it, and LittleBear has thought of it. In my worst moments I am certain it is a conscious effort to ensure that we are still there, and can be called upon at any moment. In my less angry and resentful moments, I am more convinced that his poor subconscious mind is desperately worried about abandonment, and he can't help himself in his need to know that we are there and will always look after him. And sometimes he just needs to go to the bathroom.
I arranged a babysitter. LovelyGirl who coped so admirably last time with his misery at being left. He likes her. We went round to visit her after The Incident, to give her chocolate, and play with her kitten, and play with her, and he had a wonderful time, and she plied him with more chocolate, and he came home thinking she was splendid. So we made a lovely new plan, where she'd come here in time to read him a bed-time story (as well as having his normal stories from one of us). And we planned not to leave straight away, but to wait and be here with her while he got used to the idea that she was downstairs too.
And now I've bottled it. She was due to come tomorrow, and tonight we had not one, not two, but three summonses upstairs to tend to a variety of real or imagined ills. And my spirit was crushed. I can't face even trying. I've cancelled LovelyGirl. I feel defeated. On the one hand I fear that I'm allowing myself to be emotionally manipulated by my son. On the other hand I cannot bear the idea of causing him the level of distress and anxiety that gave him night terrors last time. I don't know how to coax his subconscious mind into being fine with someone other than his parents in the house with him. I can't rationalise it out of him, despite his splendid ability to be rational and logical. He knows, rationally, that all will be well. He knows, rationally, that we will never abandon him. He knows, rationally, that LovelyGirl is lovely and will look after him. He knows, rationally, that he is loved beyond all reason. But his heart still doubts. And I don't know how to erase those doubts.
I tried suggesting to him that maybe there could be something I could give him to take to bed, something so precious that he knew I would always return for it. Except, the only thing I can think of that is that precious to me is my LittleBear himself. Which I told him. He countered with the suggestion that he take my handbag to bed, and then I wouldn't be able to go out. Perhaps he is a devious little child after all...
So now I just feel like I've failed. I've failed to raise a robust little child. I've failed to enforce any kind of "parental authority" and insist that he cope. I'm the parent who bends to the whim of her small tyrant, and gives up all semblance of life.
And I find myself fearing being judged by other parents more than I fear that failure. I fear being condemned for my failings. I fear being told that I just need to get on with it. I fear being told about how everyone else's child sobbed and wailed and they just left them anyway, and I should do the same thing. Because my LittleBear may have his fears and his foibles and his irritations, but he is my LittleBear, and he won't need me forever, but just now he does, and if I have one job as his mother, it's to make sure that he is secure and loved. I was not the mother who was capable of letting her baby "cry it out", and I'm not the mother who's capable of letting her six-year old sob himself sick because he doesn't want to be left. I need to remind myself of the first of the lessons I learnt about having a baby This is just a phase. And yes, BigBear and I could go out, and spend our time fretting about our LittleBear, and come home to handle night terrors and sleeplessness. Or we could just spend our evenings at home together, and be here for our fragile little boy until he is ready for us not to be.
So please, feel free not to tell me about your amazing child-free evenings and weekends. Don't assume I want to know how awesome your babysitting strategies are. Don't advise me that he'll "get over it" if we force the issue. Don't try and reassure me that because your child overcame their fears, mine will too if only I do what you tell me. Because I already have a reputation as being the mother who cries a lot and swears too much, and I might just resort to one or both of those strategies if you offer me your words of wisdom. Even if your words of wisdom are right. Because at the moment, I'm following my second piece of advice - I'm doing what works for us, until it stops working. I'm not going out. Until I do.
* We had the Tigger family staying with us for a few days during the holidays, and BoyTigger (almost 8) shared LittleBear's bedroom with him. They both went to bed calmly and without fuss, and we didn't hear a peep from them.
It's two weeks now since we went out and LittleBear crumbled. And since then, he's managed to find some reason that a parent is required every evening, except the evenings when there was someone else sleeping in his room with him*. We've had additional wee-ing, additional poo-ing, itchiness, pain, being too hot, being too cold, having a nightmare (despite not being asleep), not being able to get to sleep, being worried, having a sore finger. You name it, and LittleBear has thought of it. In my worst moments I am certain it is a conscious effort to ensure that we are still there, and can be called upon at any moment. In my less angry and resentful moments, I am more convinced that his poor subconscious mind is desperately worried about abandonment, and he can't help himself in his need to know that we are there and will always look after him. And sometimes he just needs to go to the bathroom.
I arranged a babysitter. LovelyGirl who coped so admirably last time with his misery at being left. He likes her. We went round to visit her after The Incident, to give her chocolate, and play with her kitten, and play with her, and he had a wonderful time, and she plied him with more chocolate, and he came home thinking she was splendid. So we made a lovely new plan, where she'd come here in time to read him a bed-time story (as well as having his normal stories from one of us). And we planned not to leave straight away, but to wait and be here with her while he got used to the idea that she was downstairs too.
And now I've bottled it. She was due to come tomorrow, and tonight we had not one, not two, but three summonses upstairs to tend to a variety of real or imagined ills. And my spirit was crushed. I can't face even trying. I've cancelled LovelyGirl. I feel defeated. On the one hand I fear that I'm allowing myself to be emotionally manipulated by my son. On the other hand I cannot bear the idea of causing him the level of distress and anxiety that gave him night terrors last time. I don't know how to coax his subconscious mind into being fine with someone other than his parents in the house with him. I can't rationalise it out of him, despite his splendid ability to be rational and logical. He knows, rationally, that all will be well. He knows, rationally, that we will never abandon him. He knows, rationally, that LovelyGirl is lovely and will look after him. He knows, rationally, that he is loved beyond all reason. But his heart still doubts. And I don't know how to erase those doubts.
I tried suggesting to him that maybe there could be something I could give him to take to bed, something so precious that he knew I would always return for it. Except, the only thing I can think of that is that precious to me is my LittleBear himself. Which I told him. He countered with the suggestion that he take my handbag to bed, and then I wouldn't be able to go out. Perhaps he is a devious little child after all...
So now I just feel like I've failed. I've failed to raise a robust little child. I've failed to enforce any kind of "parental authority" and insist that he cope. I'm the parent who bends to the whim of her small tyrant, and gives up all semblance of life.
And I find myself fearing being judged by other parents more than I fear that failure. I fear being condemned for my failings. I fear being told that I just need to get on with it. I fear being told about how everyone else's child sobbed and wailed and they just left them anyway, and I should do the same thing. Because my LittleBear may have his fears and his foibles and his irritations, but he is my LittleBear, and he won't need me forever, but just now he does, and if I have one job as his mother, it's to make sure that he is secure and loved. I was not the mother who was capable of letting her baby "cry it out", and I'm not the mother who's capable of letting her six-year old sob himself sick because he doesn't want to be left. I need to remind myself of the first of the lessons I learnt about having a baby This is just a phase. And yes, BigBear and I could go out, and spend our time fretting about our LittleBear, and come home to handle night terrors and sleeplessness. Or we could just spend our evenings at home together, and be here for our fragile little boy until he is ready for us not to be.
So please, feel free not to tell me about your amazing child-free evenings and weekends. Don't assume I want to know how awesome your babysitting strategies are. Don't advise me that he'll "get over it" if we force the issue. Don't try and reassure me that because your child overcame their fears, mine will too if only I do what you tell me. Because I already have a reputation as being the mother who cries a lot and swears too much, and I might just resort to one or both of those strategies if you offer me your words of wisdom. Even if your words of wisdom are right. Because at the moment, I'm following my second piece of advice - I'm doing what works for us, until it stops working. I'm not going out. Until I do.
* We had the Tigger family staying with us for a few days during the holidays, and BoyTigger (almost 8) shared LittleBear's bedroom with him. They both went to bed calmly and without fuss, and we didn't hear a peep from them.
Thursday, 5 April 2018
Night terrors and daytime fears
It turns out it wasn't just the baby-sitter.
No, it was something new and peculiar happening inside LittleBear's head. Because it's now happened three times in the past week, with my beloved little boy not waking up, but still sitting bolt upright in bed, sobbing and whimpering, trembling convulsively and muttering incoherently. Last night it was "Mummy.... Mummy.... Mummy...." as I held him close and smoothed his hair. I simply held him until the episode passed and his body relaxed back into sleep, at which point, unlike the previous two incidents, we were then able to tuck him back under his own covers and leave him to sleep peacefully for the rest of the night. And he has absolutely no memory of it today.
I'd been out with a couple of friends last night, and LittleBear had known this. Did a fear of my absence trigger the distress, as it seemed to on The Night of The Babysitter? Did being exhausted from a full day at holiday camp cause his sleep to be somehow askew?
According to the NHS, night terrors are not anything to do with deep psychological trauma, but can be exhaustion, illness, anxiety, or even a full bladder, and I'm finding it very hard to believe them. The NHS also say you should not hold or comfort your child during a night terror, but simply allow it to pass while making sure your child is safe. And I definitely don't believe them, because my son needs the security of my arms around him, and my voice in his ear, and my kisses on his sweaty, scared little head. With every fibre of my being I know that to be the case. The way he clambers into my arms, even in his sleep, tells me so. The way he burrows his head into my chest tells me so. The way he clings to me tells me so. So, one has to wonder why I even bothered to consult the NHS, since I have decided to either partially or completely reject what I've read.
So here I sit, tired and somewhat fretful. Again. In fact, I think "tired and somewhat fretful" is probably the best description I can come up with for my state since bringing another human being into the world. It's probably what I should have called this blog from the beginning.
And, because I'm tired, the world is once again becoming a dark and horrible place. And because I'm somewhat fretful, most of those concerns revolve around my LittleBear and his wellbeing. Except the ones that revolve around my own fragile sense of self-worth. Sometimes I manage to let the two intersect. For example, currently I am veering firmly into being convinced that my LittleBear is in some way irrevocably damaged, and that it is all rooted in my evil abandonment of him for an evening last week. Two birds with one stone there - he is emotionally scarred and I am a bad mother.
Naturally, when I allow the rational, normal part of my brain a say in things, I start to think that perhaps the fine folk of the NHS might know something. But I think we've already, all too frequently, established that when I am over-tired I do not allow the rational, normal part of my brain very much airtime. So today I am tired, and therefore I am useless and a failure, and my precious baby is damaged and afraid. It doesn't even matter that almost every parent I've spoken to has an anecdote about their own child's night terrors. Night terrors appear to be one of those things that happen to a great many children, and yet almost nobody ever mentions them. It remains something of a mystery to me why there are so many of these parenting secrets. Was there a set of classes I missed in which we were told all these things? Is everyone else more assiduous about reading books on childhood development? Is this just another way in which I've failed? By being ignorant of the things that might befall my boy, I condemn him to my own incompetent mothering.
I said to a friend the other day, "I don't know why LittleBear worries about everything so much..."
My friend looked at me with one eyebrow raised and laughed.
He has a point.
No, it was something new and peculiar happening inside LittleBear's head. Because it's now happened three times in the past week, with my beloved little boy not waking up, but still sitting bolt upright in bed, sobbing and whimpering, trembling convulsively and muttering incoherently. Last night it was "Mummy.... Mummy.... Mummy...." as I held him close and smoothed his hair. I simply held him until the episode passed and his body relaxed back into sleep, at which point, unlike the previous two incidents, we were then able to tuck him back under his own covers and leave him to sleep peacefully for the rest of the night. And he has absolutely no memory of it today.
I'd been out with a couple of friends last night, and LittleBear had known this. Did a fear of my absence trigger the distress, as it seemed to on The Night of The Babysitter? Did being exhausted from a full day at holiday camp cause his sleep to be somehow askew?
According to the NHS, night terrors are not anything to do with deep psychological trauma, but can be exhaustion, illness, anxiety, or even a full bladder, and I'm finding it very hard to believe them. The NHS also say you should not hold or comfort your child during a night terror, but simply allow it to pass while making sure your child is safe. And I definitely don't believe them, because my son needs the security of my arms around him, and my voice in his ear, and my kisses on his sweaty, scared little head. With every fibre of my being I know that to be the case. The way he clambers into my arms, even in his sleep, tells me so. The way he burrows his head into my chest tells me so. The way he clings to me tells me so. So, one has to wonder why I even bothered to consult the NHS, since I have decided to either partially or completely reject what I've read.
So here I sit, tired and somewhat fretful. Again. In fact, I think "tired and somewhat fretful" is probably the best description I can come up with for my state since bringing another human being into the world. It's probably what I should have called this blog from the beginning.
And, because I'm tired, the world is once again becoming a dark and horrible place. And because I'm somewhat fretful, most of those concerns revolve around my LittleBear and his wellbeing. Except the ones that revolve around my own fragile sense of self-worth. Sometimes I manage to let the two intersect. For example, currently I am veering firmly into being convinced that my LittleBear is in some way irrevocably damaged, and that it is all rooted in my evil abandonment of him for an evening last week. Two birds with one stone there - he is emotionally scarred and I am a bad mother.
Naturally, when I allow the rational, normal part of my brain a say in things, I start to think that perhaps the fine folk of the NHS might know something. But I think we've already, all too frequently, established that when I am over-tired I do not allow the rational, normal part of my brain very much airtime. So today I am tired, and therefore I am useless and a failure, and my precious baby is damaged and afraid. It doesn't even matter that almost every parent I've spoken to has an anecdote about their own child's night terrors. Night terrors appear to be one of those things that happen to a great many children, and yet almost nobody ever mentions them. It remains something of a mystery to me why there are so many of these parenting secrets. Was there a set of classes I missed in which we were told all these things? Is everyone else more assiduous about reading books on childhood development? Is this just another way in which I've failed? By being ignorant of the things that might befall my boy, I condemn him to my own incompetent mothering.
I said to a friend the other day, "I don't know why LittleBear worries about everything so much..."
My friend looked at me with one eyebrow raised and laughed.
He has a point.
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