Here is a GREAT moment caught on video--Nanna reading to Isaac while he sits on a throne of pillows on the couch. GREAT. Just great.
David Hume is a philosopher's philosopher. He is willing to stake out an extreme position and defend it against all comers--the Church, science, even other philosophers (touche! Rene Descartes), whatever. In particular it was his analysis of induction (the process of making a generalization based on specifics) in An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding that really ruffled some 18th century feathers. And as I sat with Isaac at midnight last night as he steadfastly refused to fall asleep I realized that David Hume was right--induction is a tempting but ultimately hollow process many times.
Here is a brief explanation of Hume's big idea, call the Problem of Induction, in the Enquiry. People regularly make broad generalizations and rules about the nature of things based on personally witnessing specific instances of the given thing. For example, the general rule "All swans are white" is based on personally viewing swan after swan and seeing only white swans. But we know that, rare as they are, there are black swans. But the convenience and power of making big rules based on personal experience tempts us to do this all of the time. Induction is seductively powerful when dealing with cries, sleep patterns, and general behavior of an infant.
So Isaac has had two tough nights going to sleep thus far, one last week and one this week (last night). As I stood there last night I tried desperately to find a pattern. Was it something Bianca ate? Was it something that we did in the going to bed routine? Was it the Red Sox being on the radio as he breastfed? Over and over I tried to find some connection to the two nights. I tried to take the specific instances and make out a general rule. It didn't work.
And I have noticed that all new parents do this all of the time. We are guessing about what causes a certain behavior. Bianca, Nanna, and I have figured out, definitively, that Isaac likes leg massages based on his repeated and obvious pleased reaction, but other than that there are, at best, a few tenuous causation rules with our little one. Isaac seems to be patternless. There are no general rules (which, yes I realize, is itself a general rule) when it comes to infants.
Thanks David Hume and your analysis of the Problem of Induction. It is perhaps the most salient piece of parenting advice I have ever taken from a book (I have received copious amounts of wisdom from people, books just aren't the same in this area).
Here is a brief explanation of Hume's big idea, call the Problem of Induction, in the Enquiry. People regularly make broad generalizations and rules about the nature of things based on personally witnessing specific instances of the given thing. For example, the general rule "All swans are white" is based on personally viewing swan after swan and seeing only white swans. But we know that, rare as they are, there are black swans. But the convenience and power of making big rules based on personal experience tempts us to do this all of the time. Induction is seductively powerful when dealing with cries, sleep patterns, and general behavior of an infant.
So Isaac has had two tough nights going to sleep thus far, one last week and one this week (last night). As I stood there last night I tried desperately to find a pattern. Was it something Bianca ate? Was it something that we did in the going to bed routine? Was it the Red Sox being on the radio as he breastfed? Over and over I tried to find some connection to the two nights. I tried to take the specific instances and make out a general rule. It didn't work.
And I have noticed that all new parents do this all of the time. We are guessing about what causes a certain behavior. Bianca, Nanna, and I have figured out, definitively, that Isaac likes leg massages based on his repeated and obvious pleased reaction, but other than that there are, at best, a few tenuous causation rules with our little one. Isaac seems to be patternless. There are no general rules (which, yes I realize, is itself a general rule) when it comes to infants.
Thanks David Hume and your analysis of the Problem of Induction. It is perhaps the most salient piece of parenting advice I have ever taken from a book (I have received copious amounts of wisdom from people, books just aren't the same in this area).
It was about 4:12 AM. I was roused from slumber by a tiny squealing over the baby monitor that rose to a full-on wail. Like a jack rabbit I popped up from my bed, grabbed a flashlight, and made my way into Isaac's room. He was in his crib being a little fussy. I picked him up and started to comfort him. He quieted quickly. We sat down in the bean bag chair and began to chat. He was looking at me with that face, part scowl, part skeptical eyebrow when it happened. It sounded like a sponge being squeezed dry quickly, like a rush of liquid passing through a screen. But this time it continued. Not once, not twice, but a series of squishes. And then he smiled.
I waited a second for another volley but nothing came. I put him on the changing table only to realize that his onsey was damp. I flipped it up and saw it covered in yellow goo. I took it off. Then I saw the real damage. The yellow goo had shot out of his diaper and up the spine of his back. It ended between his shoulder blades. And then I saw it had come out the front of his diaper, around the frank and beans and up to his belly. It was on the changing table. It had happened--the Poopocalypse. It was beyond "a dump," more than an "assplosion." It was the poop to end all poops and it was everywhere. It was on my hands, and later that morning I would discover, on my shirt. I cried out to myself: Oh my God. Bianca heard me on the baby monitor and came in. And then she started laughing. I was hit by the shrapnel of a poop grenade, thrown by Isaac.
I waited a second for another volley but nothing came. I put him on the changing table only to realize that his onsey was damp. I flipped it up and saw it covered in yellow goo. I took it off. Then I saw the real damage. The yellow goo had shot out of his diaper and up the spine of his back. It ended between his shoulder blades. And then I saw it had come out the front of his diaper, around the frank and beans and up to his belly. It was on the changing table. It had happened--the Poopocalypse. It was beyond "a dump," more than an "assplosion." It was the poop to end all poops and it was everywhere. It was on my hands, and later that morning I would discover, on my shirt. I cried out to myself: Oh my God. Bianca heard me on the baby monitor and came in. And then she started laughing. I was hit by the shrapnel of a poop grenade, thrown by Isaac.