When I was visiting Lisa last month, she made a comment about how one of the most skills a child can learn is to be able to entertain himself. Some children, she said, know how to do it easily enough: give him some toys, doesn't need to be many, or overwhelmingly interesting, and he'll play play play. Some of the ability to self-entertain is based on the child's imagination: a wood block can be a wood block, a building, a brick, a gift, a loaf of bread, a cookie, a chocolate bar, a book, or an eraser. When we grow older, we often think less creatively, and the wood block is just a wood block; the dot on the chalkboard is just a dot.

When watching Eli and Jake, I noticed Eli was remarkably able to self-entertain himself. He would like books read to him, but seemed fine to be left alone with his toys. Often, he would be pull a box out, dump it, and start in on some story about the airplane landing in the corn field with the city in chaos next to it, and the tree people with incredible leaping abilities being able to jump on top of the planes. He seemed lost in his little world until another event pulled him out of it.

Jake, on the other hand, seemed pulled out easily. Distracted by the outside quickly, not as immersed into his own world as Eli was, Jake seemed to need outside stimulus to keep him occupied.

As a kid, I remember reading books. I know I was lost in the world of books, being able to block out the world when I'm immersed in a book. I don't recall being self-entertained as a kid with much other than books. I watch Jonathan's kids and am amazed how similar they are to Jake and Eli in terms of self-entertainment. The elder seems to need external stimulus to be entertained, where the younger is content with his trains and toys.
I wonder if the trend was true of my older brother and me, if it's a "first born gets lots of attention so never really learned to self-entertain, but the second is somewhat ignored so is forced to self-entertain" sort of thing, or just, at this moment, a coincidence. I also wonder if the current always-on, 140 character, 30 second attention span affects the ability to self-entertain.

I should ask some parents who have two or more children. See what they say...

Installing Drupal 7 for a project, received a 500 Server configuration error.

Looking in the Apache error log, I saw the error:

[Wed Jan 12 19:40:24 2011] [alert] [client xxx.xxx.xxx.xxx] /var/www/httpdocs/.htaccess: Option Multiviews not allowed here

Turns out, in the apache2 config file, the following is not sufficient in the Directory section:

AllowOverride Options FileInfo AuthConfig Limit Indexes

In particular, the MultiViews option is needed:

AllowOverride Options=All,MultiViews FileInfo AuthConfig Limit Indexes

Day two of staying put, and I'm disappointed.

I'm disappointed in my lack of progress on my own projects: I haven't managed tow work at all on my stuff.

I'm disappointed in my lack of progress on my client work: I've been working nearly non-stop on this one rewrite to fix a large systems design flaw, and haven't been able to finish it. It's blocking everything else.

I'm disappointed in my lack of exercise: I sat for a week driving across the country and haven't managed to get going yet. I've been standing instead of sitting much of the last two days, but it's still not enough. I ache to play ultimate, to run until my legs are exhausted and my lungs hurt and my shoulders cry for me to stop. We managed two walks around the block, which is more than zero, but too little to be healthy. I'm going to pull out the DVDs tomorrow, see if that helps.

I'm disappointed in my lack of infrastructure progress: I still don't have a Canadian phone, or a good way to access my funds. I haven't found a place for next week, and I'm starting to feel nervous about it. I don't have a good place to work, and worry I'm not being nearly productive enough.

I'm disappointed that I haven't sat down and just thought about things. I have a bottle of whiskey and enough disk space to write the next American novel, and yet, I worry about going into those dark places where self doubt, self incrimination, self hatred sit; where memories I've tucked away rest in dusty corners just waiting to be brought out and examined, analyzed and reviewed.

I'm disappointed I haven't caught up with my trip. Driving across country with Andy, Paul, Jessica and Jonathan was an incredible experience, and it's starting to fade. I haven't posted my pictures yet, either.

I'm full of disappointments when this is a time to be excited about changes.

Today was mostly working on client work. Jonathan and I went for a walk around the block around lunch time, and again when his kids came home from school. Running around the block was awesome fun. I'm amused at the different perspectives of the two of them: one just wants to run run run, the other needs to win, even if it means giving up on the sour grapes. The former is delightfully childlike and full of life, the latter seems to have the "taint" of social influence. It's an interesting contrast that I enjoyed observing.

Tomorrow, I'll strive to think as the one kid did, full of child wonderment at the world, "Wow, this is fun just doing this!" instead of through the lens of disappointment that I viewed today. I figure that way, even if the day isn't productive, it will still be fun.

I have arrived in this strange northern land in a period of white. I shall observe the large male of the native dominant species and report back my findings.

Thus far today, said male seems to spend most of his day near motionless, staring at a large rectangular surface of bright moving lights, wiggling his figures on another surface full of squares. All of the surfaces display a small fruit symbol: based on the number of symbols, I believe the surfaces to be part of a larger shrine to the male's deity. I will need to explore this phenomena further.

The area itself is incredibly cold, below the freezing point of water, covered in a white to black surface that is also cold. I have donned the locals' style of dress to blend in: a fuzzy hood-lined, brown covering filled with the remnants of flying animals' insulation. I have not developed an allergy to the remnants, and appreciate the warmth of covering provides.

I have managed to prod the male into action, including a walk around his dwelling. He seems to enjoy the movement, emitting laughing noises and talking about his administrations on the surfaces with the markings. I shall win his trust and continue with the walks, even though the cold is nearly unbearable.

I have driven 2555 miles in the last five days with three different friends. I plan on driving another 700 in two days with another. I have driven those first miles, and stand in the bathroom of my father's house, the house of part of my childhood, the house he has been in for thirty years.

As I look around, I remember my dismay at the hairs growing in under my arms and down below, realizing I was changing. I remember crying at the change, desperately wishing it away, and lamenting there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I turn, and as I walk up the stairs to my bedroom, I remember seeing my mom on the stairs crying. She had fallen down the stairs, and was in pain. I was confused. "You're an adult," I told her, "you're not supposed to cry."

I continue upstairs, and, as I walk into my childhood bedroom, remember how I lay on the bed there and heard my mom ask my dad for a divorce. Neither realized I was around the corner listening, hearing every word. None of us realized how hard that moment would be for me to overcome decades later.

I crawl into the bed, and as I lie there, I hear the trains on the distant tracks, the horn sounding across the forest and fields that will be plowed under for houses this year. I begin to weep for the loss of that land.

And as I cry, I remember how I cried to be normal when I was young. How I didn't want to be smart, an outcast, I just wanted to fit in. I realize just how much my life has been better for not having been normal, and wish I could comfort that child who knew not what she wished for.

I stop crying and, as I rise from the bed, look out the nighttime windows of my childhood bedroom. I see the trees from my youth are still standing just outside my windows. They are bigger than they were when I gazed out at them as a child. They are bigger, but they are still here.

I, too, am bigger. I too am still here.

I have come a long way

I still have a long way to go.