Month: April 2015

The Apple Watch, A Screen Too Many

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…And I’m not buying it…

The Apple Watch is not for me. I know, I know, a lot of people said the same thing about the iPad. Who needs one of those? But the two are not the same. When I want some actual peace and quiet, I enjoy storing my computer away, setting aside the iPad, and taking my phone out of my pocket and leaving it somewhere out of reach. I don’t want to take my watch off every time I want some peace.

It matters to me that the watch, like the computer, iPad, and iPhone, is another temptation to go down the rabbit hole of the internet, whether that is compulsively checking emails or entering the time suck known as Facebook. The internet and the screens on which we access the internet are only good in moderation. I feel a noticeable difference in mood when I shed myself of access to the world wide web. I relax a little more than I can if every one of those devices is pinging me with notifications and breaking news.

For me, truly cutting away from all that technology means I have to physically remove it from anywhere within reach. It’s an out of sight out of mind thing. If I keep my phone on me when I would rather be writing or reading then I will inevitably take a lap around the internet on it, making me less productive and having a negative effect on my mood. The watch would just be another temptation to do all that. I have a hard time envisioning someone with the Apple Watch regularly checking the time and doing nothing else with the gadget.

Now that I am a dad, ridding myself of screens has become much more important. I still catch myself looking at my phone a little too much and not at London. It breaks my heart when I think of giving more attention to my stupid gadgets than to the beautiful baby I spend every day with. Having a mini computer on my wrist is the last thing she wants and I agree.

I just can’t imagine having an Apple Watch and not increasing the amount of time I look at screens, which I think is more than enough already. And it makes me feel ill when I see toddlers walking around connected to their iPad already. The absence of a screen on my wrist will be another attempt to shield London as much as possible from lesser forms of communication than what we were made for.

She Sneezes Into Her Hand As Well

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She sneezed into her hand five minutes after it happened. I shook my head in disgust and in further disappointment in myself for not stopping her five minutes earlier.

We were all out at one of my favorite restaurants, the Bull and Bush, having an excellent weekend dinner. London was in a high chair eating off of the disinfected table. She wasn’t too enthralled with the food. It was great, but there was so much to look at so sometimes she just wouldn’t eat what we were offering her. When that happens we always set the food in front of her.

London is finicky about when she wants to feed herself versus when she wants us to give her food on a spoon or with our fingers. Right before our server walked up to the table London turned away from a piece of food Kate was offering her. Kate placed it on the table in front of London, knowing that London would pick it up eventually and feed herself. But there would be no time for that. The server picked up the piece of food and fed London right off her finger.

I was so freaking surprised I froze, didn’t say anything, and looked at Kate. Did that just happen?

Kate’s eyes answered back, yes, yes it did. 

Okay, I thought. It’s probably not that bad. Wait, who am I kidding here? That server just fed London like she was her grandkid (interestingly enough, she was plenty old to have a few) without any knowledge of London’s past. And we have no knowledge of where her hands have been. Does she wash them as much as she should? Not sure, but I found out she prefers to sneeze directly into her palm.

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Our old lofty perch, from where the Bull and Bush was within walking distance.

I thought about saying something to her or writing on the receipt, but the damage had been done. If she had some disgusting bacteria on her hand she had already gifted London with it. I know very well that at some point I will transfer a bug to London, but that’s the right of the parent to do. Plus, I know I have big pump action bottles of hand sanitizer on both floors of the house. I know my hands get dry and cracked from using so much of that stuff. I have the cleanest hands I have ever had in my life.

Yes, I was mad at the server, but I let it go. I was mostly disappointed in myself. We were both trying to be so nice that we didn’t say anything at all when it happened. And it happened so fast. If we were going to say anything at all it would have needed to be pretty blunt like, “Stop! What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I vow to never let this happen again, but I also don’t expect to come across too many servers who feel like they can hand feed my baby. If they do, I’ll throw being polite right out the window.

At Home With London is on Facebook

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Hello everyone.

Just a quick word here about the blog. If you’re on Facebook, give us a follow at this link. You’ll get all of the updates in your news feed, but you’ll still have to click over to the blog to read the whole post. And, if you feel so inclined, share the page on your own Facebook page.

Again, the blog is on Facebook. Like the page HERE. Thanks.

Graduating to a Bottle

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Last week I uploaded a video of Kate and I feeding London 1 ml of milk from a very tiny syringe. Though it was a long, long time until London could move on up to a bottle and I took many videos between that syringe and the first bottle, I wanted to skip to a video of an early bottle feeding.

In this video nurse Eileen is giving London a bottle. It was during a time of London’s NICU stay in which she was particularly stubborn about wanting to drink at all. Sometimes she was a champ, drinking her whole feed, but at other times she drank 5 ml and looked at us like, what? I’m done. Just gavage the rest and get on with it.

I think I had been trying to feed London and handed her off to Eileen, hoping London would cooperate a little more. She does in the video at least, but I can’t remember if she finished that particular bottle. Most of the time she did not. Thus, when it was time for London’s NICU discharge she came home with an NG tube.

One thing you see here in the video of London is the pacing that we had to do for quite a long time before London had the energy and the skill to take a constant flow from the bottle without choking and also learning how to breath properly during feeding. We would give London some flow from the bottle, for three seconds about, and then tilt the bottle back and let her catch her breath and finish swallowing the milk. It seems simple enough, but you also had to keep her body tilted to the side as well. And after that, you had better familiarize yourself with London’s cues…or else a nurse might give you heck from the other side of the pod, “And dad’s just choking the baby over there.”

When my sister visited London she was eager to give her a bottle. I felt bad, but I just had to say no. I went on to explain that it wasn’t like giving a full-term baby a bottle, at least not yet. After watching me feed London, my sister acknowledged that it looked difficult. I’m glad she did. At that point, I was only willing to hand London to someone other than Kate or a nurse if all they were going to do was sit with her.

I remember the day I discovered that I did not have to pace London’s bottle anymore. We were waiting for a ROP exam, and she was a little moody so I brought out a bottle and I tilted it up so the milk started flowing and I did not tilt it back down again until the bottle was empty. I was astonished and looked from the bottle to London’s happy, chubby face and back to the bottle. I knew we had reached a milestone in London’s feeding progress. But back down to earth we came, for the ROP exam was next.

March for Babies

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Denver’s City Park during the 2015 March for Babies.

This last weekend we walked with London in our family’s first March of Dimes event. Last year we were still in the NICU when it took place and prior to that, I had no clue what March of Dimes supports. The organization exists to help moms have a full-term pregnancy. And if that doesn’t happen, then they provide help, support, and resources to preemies and their parents.

We had a hectic week so we actually thought about not going to Denver’s City Park to participate in the walk this year, but we were both thankful we did. We even got to walk with one of London’s primary NICU nurses. In addition to seeing some other nurses who took care of London, just being in the presence of more than a thousand other preemies and their parents was empowering…even if we didn’t strike up a conversation with any of them.

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London and Kate wearing purple in support of preemies and ending premature birth.

The 5k walk meandered through City Park. We started behind many slower walkers and passed most of them by off-roading it in the grass. Toward the end, we were out in front with other fast walkers scattered about. We slowed down a bit as we neared the stage of the walk where posters were placed in the grass showing pictures of preemies at their birth and then a few years later, strong, energetic, and healthy. The posters shared the gestational age at birth and sometimes the weight. As we walked by I glanced from poster to poster noting the gestational ages, “Born at 38 weeks…..Born at 25 weeks….Born at 40 weeks….Born at 33 weeks….Born too soon.” And then, a little later on, “Born at 19 weeks,” with a picture of impossibly small feet and a message of why the parents support March of Dimes, because no parents should have to suffer losing a baby.

When I saw the first “Born too soon,” I think I had a sharp intake of breath. It was a stark reminder that we were walking for the preemies who didn’t make it as well as those who have. We came scarily close to having a “Born too soon” baby. Whatever it was that set things in motion for Kate’s premature delivery, we will never know, but I am so glad things happened when they did and not 2+ weeks earlier. I usually don’t dwell on this what if?, but the walk made me think about it a little more than usual. To change my train of thought was easy this time. I just had to look up. I was surrounded by hope, happy endings, and amazingly supportive parents.

The Mountain Buggy

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I never expected to receive a stroller as a surprise birthday gift. Nor did I expect to be happy when receiving a stroller as a surprise birthday gift. When both of those things happened, I knew I had fully arrived as a SAHD.

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With the latest edition to the stroller stable.

The picture here is just moments after I came in the door to find London locked in and ready for a stroll in this Mountain Buggy Terrain, the tallest, most beautiful jogging stroller I have ever pushed around. We had thought about making this stroller our everyday stroller for a while, but after using it for nearly three months I am glad we did not. To be clear, the Terrain is amazing. At its tallest, it’s actually too tall if I want to run with it. (I love having something that’s too tall). The stroller is rock solid on bumpy trails and there is more than enough adequate storage below the seat and in pockets on either side of the sun shade.

But the thing is a beast! When collapsed it barely fits in the back of our Toyota Highlander. It’s no light stroller. Lift with your legs, not with your back. Lugging it around for everyday tasks and errands would have been a hassle. I am still ever so grateful for our Uppababy and the Chicco umbrella stroller we now have.

Again, the tall strollers are consistently one of the most expensive models in the market. However, our Terrain was a spotless floor model so it was discounted nearly $200. Phew.

I’ll never forget the first time I took London for a run in the stroller. She started giggling as soon as I started off on the trail. She kept laughing so that in ten minutes she had worn herself out and was snoozing. So even on gravel, the Terrain provides a smooth enough ride for the occupant.

I had given the Uppababy some stroller love on this blog back in September. The Mountain Buggy is worthy of the same praise. If you’re tall and want a jogging stroller, look no further.

I Hear Old People

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It was one of those freak, 65-degree days in January and I had ventured downtown with London. We were at REI and I had just sat down at a patio table at the Starbucks there, overlooking Confluence Park and the South Platte River and Cherry Creek.

Our table was in the sun and London stayed in her stroller, which was positioned just right for her to eye every person walking by her on their way to get a coffee. Babies love people watching and London was clearly into it.

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The scene of the crime.

I pulled out my phone and casually checked my email and did a quick scan of Instagram. It was about two to three minutes of screen time before I heard an old woman speaking. She was seated with her husband, I assume, at a table directly across from our table, with the path for patio customers between us. I had started to eavesdrop because I heard her say to her husband, “Don’t you wonder about kids these days and what their vocabulary will be like as they start school?”

I couldn’t hear what her husband said in response. I continued listening, positioned in a way that I was facing London, now giving her a bottle, but I had my sunglasses on so my eyes were fixed on this lady and she could not tell.

What she said next made me freeze. “Well, that dad over there has said all of three words to his daughter since sitting down. He’s been playing with his phone and not talking to her at all.”

In that moment, I’m pretty sure I wanted to huck my iced coffee at her face. But she went on, bemoaning the sad state of parenting because of parents like me who look at their phone in the presence of their baby. I continued my stare, amazed that she could not see my eyes through my sunglasses and astonished that she would choose to say such things at all about someone sitting right across from her.

The old couple’s conversation eventually shifted to a different topic.  Where I sat I did not need the hot, January sun to keep me warm anymore. My blood was boiling. For the next ten minutes I sat there thinking about what I would say to this woman, if anything at all, and how would I deliver the message? And every word I spoke to London I second-guessed, am I saying this to London just because of what that old lady said?

Was this a moment to hold my tongue and be the bigger person? Or did this justify letting this old hag know just how much her assessment of modern-day parenting was incorrect? I admit, normally, I would have let this lady walk by without saying a word, but I had never had my parenting called into question like this. I am no perfect parent, but speaking and reading to London is where I excel. I decided I had to defend this.

The couple had stood up, gathered their biking gear, and were making their exit, forced to walk right by me. My eyes did not leave that old lady as soon as she starting moving. This time she noticed my stare and as she was right by my table I said, “I heard every word you said about my daughter and I. I really didn’t appreciate it and wanted to let you know that you are wrong. I have read thousands of pages to my daughter and I think she’ll have a fine vocabulary.”

Old lady, immediately apologetic and surprised, “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

No response from me. London stared at her and made some noises. “I can tell she’s trying to talk,” the old lady said.

“Yep,” I said, a little on the curt side, but hey, I think it’s pretty clear that I didn’t strike up this conversation to be friends with you so move along.

She felt like adding one more thing, “Well, it wasn’t like I was broadcasting it.” I did not acknowledge that and she got the hint and moved on. All the while her husband was a little behind her and I am pretty sure he missed the whole exchange. I gave him a wave and said, “Enjoy your ride.”

“Thank you,” he said, and walked on, completely unaware of what went down.

It was so liberating to let that woman know just how wrong and mean her comments had been. I watched her at a distance now, as she was getting onto her bicycle. There was a part of me that was hoping she would feel like an ass for the rest of the morning.

I think what that old lady said to her husband that day is so characteristic of some older or elderly people. It’s this feeling they sometimes get (or always have) that everything used to be better and now everything is going to shit, including parenting. As many people grow older the list of things they dislike and bemoan grows longer and longer. Eventually it is so long that most of the sentences coming out of their mouths are complaints. The worst of these are the most negative people to be around. This is a trait I loathe and one that I hope does not follow me into my golden years.

As a younger person it can be discouraging and exhausting to be around people who think everything is going to hell. I know it is very hard to be positive sometimes. And it is hard to hope. But try. Promise me that. And I’ll promise to read to my daughter today.

Early Smiles

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London’s early smiles were one of the first signs of how happy a baby she would become. At first I thought the flashes of a smile I saw were just the typical baby imitating the adult’s facial expressions, but by the time this video was taken on her two-month birthday I had changed my mind.

You can see London try to look up at me. The comfort of knowing that dad is holding her breaks through those hiccups and appears as a smile on her face. And then, back to hiccuping. Kate says, “She smiles a lot…”

She did then and she still does. She is constantly reminding me to be happy and then to stay happy. Even in those most frustrating moments of parenthood when I am in grumpy land and want to stay there, her joy cracks the scowl on my face and I surrender to her smile.

We are blessed and spoiled with such a happy baby, who continues to amaze the most weathered parents, grandparents, and great grandparents by her no-fuss, ebullient temperament.

Too Many Journals

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I would think twice about giving new parents a journal. Chances are, they already have three…at minimum.

They don’t need but one place to write their thoughts down about the expecting, the arrival, and the aftermath of their first child. We were lucky and probably only got about five journals, enough to record every minute of IMG_6093every day for the first three years.

Among people who journal, my devotion to it is moderate and, still, I am considerably disappointed by my lack of devotion to it. After all, it’s what writers do.

I’ve got a bookshelf of empty journals and I bet quite a few people can say the same, long before they have kids. For me, the site of an empty journal, which has been on my bookshelf for a decade, can be a consistent reminder of failure. (Note to self: move all empty or one-tenth-completed journals to box in basement.) Perhaps it’s the same with the people you are giving that journal too. Perhaps it’s not. But before you go ahead and give them that new-parent journal you better do a journal inventory of their bookshelves (in all rooms) and then assess whether these parents need more blank pages in their house.

If you do that assessment and you decide to still get a journal, I have a recommendation. It’s called Mom’s One Line A Day. It’s my favorite journal with the crappiest title. It offers six narrow lines of writing space for each day for five years. On each page you can see what you were doing on the same date in a five-year span. Now that’s a crapload of journaling, don’t get me wrong, but at six lines a day, even if your handwriting is small, it fills up fast.

Even with that knowledge, I fail to write in it half the days, but since Kate and I have used this journal for over a year now we have a considerable record of London’s first 15 months (nearly).

More momentous are some days than others, but I have found it helpful even to write down the seemingly mundane. Example: April 21, 2015 – 2 naps still. Read HP (book 6) out loud to you and some of A Game of Thrones. Outside in backyard you watched as I planted some herbs.

And right above that entry, I can see that on April 21, 2014, I wrote: Dad started reading The Hobbit to you today. You can’t truly follow the story but you know my voice and somehow you can tell when I start reading each day because you smile every time. It’s truly amazing.

So, if you must, pull the trigger on the Mom’s One Line A Day journal. It’s just the right dose of urging the parents to write about this spectacular time in their lives.

A 1 ml Bottle

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A long way from a full feeding, but a good start.

There were about two months of training from the day (February 27, 2014) I took this video of London until she could take a crack at an actual bottle. What an amazing step for her this was. A 1 ml syringe holds quite a bit more milk than that cotton swab we used to put in her mouth. We were thrilled in this moment.

I have posted very few videos on this blog so far, but I have so many I would eventually like to share and perhaps write about. Plus, on days I don’t have a chunk of time to write at length about raising London, sharing a video is a great option.

The Complicated Age of Preemies

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Home at last. London’s 4-month and 1-month birthday.

“How old is she?” The simplest of questions for parents of full-term babies to answer, but not so for parents of preemies because there are two answers for this one question.

At some point, a baby arrives so early that their actual age is going to be different from their developmental age. For example, my daughter, London, was born at 26 weeks gestational age, three months early. Her birthday is January 30, 2014. Her developmental birthday is May 4, 2014. This means London’s adjusted age is 11.5 months, even though she’s been with us for 14.5 months.

So how do I answer the question, “How old is she?” Well, sometimes I lie. If the person asking is asking because they are wondering why London is not walking and or talking because she’s the size of some two-year-olds, I lie and give them the adjusted age. By doing so, I direct the conversation toward the obvious and usually hear something like this: “My God, what a big baby.” I would much rather talk about how big my baby girl is than tell the person the truth and then have the conversation inevitably slide toward how London is, developmentally speaking, three months behind.

That said, I think most of the time I tell the truth and answer, “Almost 15 months,” because most people, whether they dwell on my answer or not, just aren’t going to say anything else. But I know, because I’ve seen it in their eyes, that when I say London’s real age some people look a little confused. I don’t know what they are thinking exactly, but it’s something along the lines of:

“Shouldn’t she look older?”

“She should be crawling by now.”

“She should be walking by now.”

“She should be talking more by now.”

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At seven and four-months old.

When I feel this reaction in people I know I could take the time and explain London’s two ages, but somehow just saying, “She was born three months early,” sounds cheap because I’m taking this huge, scary part of our lives and trivializing it in six words. Plus, the majority of people will not be able to comprehend what those six words truly mean. Getting stranger after stranger to comprehend that over and over again can be exhausting. I know, because I would make a casual effort to explain London’s prematurity to nearly everyone that asked. This was right after she came home from the NICU. Still on oxygen. Still rocking cheek patches. NG tube still snaking across her face. Understandably, those people who asked how old she was back then knew they were probably going to get something more than, “3 months.” But after a while, parents of preemies tire of going into the explanation thing. So, like parents of full-term babies we get back to basics with a simple, short answer, “Fourteen and a half months.”

Or am I going to say, “Eleven and a half months,” this time?

Oh hell, maybe I’ll just split the difference.

“Thirteen months.”

Wage Equality

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Every year someone at the Oscars uses their acceptance speech as an opportunity to get up on their soapbox. And every year people in the media, politicians, and sometimes people in your own living room get slightly irritated to irate about these moments when someone “supposedly” strays off topic, like the actor should not have the freedom to do anything but praise the cast and crew of the movie they starred in and, of course, thank their parents, wife, husband, and/or kids.

This year, as you may recall, Patricia Arquette used some of her time at the mic, while accepting the award for best supporting actress, to give a little speech on how important she thinks wage equality is. Here’s a little excerpt:

To every woman who gave birth, to every taxpayer and citizen of this nation, we have fought for everybody else’s equal rights. It’s time to have wage equality once and for all. And equal rights for women in the United States of America.

I was surprised this year at the uproar over Arquette’s speech and her backstage comments as well. It’s like every year people forget that some celebrity is going to stand up and fight for what they believe in or what they want others to believe in. And then when it happens again. Outrage. Shouts of, “Get on with the show.” Etc.

What I did not expect is for people to get all pissy about a call for wage equality. As a husband to an amazing woman who is the primary breadwinner in this family (always has been, likely will be for years and years to come) and as a father to the most precious girl I will ever know, wage equality is extremely important to me.

Someone promoting wage equality at the Oscars isn’t going to bother me.

I’m not going to be bothered if a pastor ends his or her sermon with a call for wage equality.

I would be delighted if I was woken up in the middle of the night by someone outside calling for wage equality.

A call for wage equality is just never going to bother me and I will never understand why this year it irritated so many.

Nana Remembers London’s Birth

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I’ve been meaning to share this comment since it was left on January 29th, when I wrote this post. The comment is from my mom, recalling the night and early morning of January 30, 2014.

I have been thinking all day about the phone ringing this night a year ago when we were sound asleep. Groggy and confused we listened to you tell us Kate was in distress, the docs were monitoring her and you would keep us posted. We hung up the phone, prayed through our tears thinking how can a baby live at 26 weeks? And we called her Grace not knowing you’d give her that moniker as her middle name. Your next call came to say Kate was about to undergo an emergency C-section. More tears and ongoing prayer. I remember my heart was beating so hard for what seemed like hours but you called again less than two hours later to say “London Grace” was here. Dozens of doctors and nurses were looking after her and Kate was in recovery. Then you asked, “Do you want to see a picture of her?” And so it began.

Still, I can’t read this without fighting back some tears. I had sort of forgotten that I asked my parents if they wanted to see a picture of their granddaughter. Such a question seems a little odd, but in the moment it was not an unusual precaution. The one picture I had of London at that point was graphic, for lack of a better word. She was vulnerable and the picture succeeded in showing that. I must have thought that maybe they would not want to see a picture of her until she stabilized some. Had they felt that way it would not have bothered me. Obviously, I was still protecting myself, but I also thought about protecting others and this was a way I tried.

I have known for a long time now that there was no protecting me or anyone else if things had gone horribly wrong during those first days. I was in shock and still under the illusion that I had any control over what happened next.

Baby in the NICU, Phone Always On

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I love having my phone on silent. Even though my phone is consistently within reach, having it on silent makes me feel a little more free of it and maybe even a little disconnected. So when my grandma called me this morning it was only by chance that I noticed the iPhone’s screen light up, catching it out of the corner of my eye.

Of course, when your phone is on silent there are missed phone calls and missed texts. You sacrifice a little instant communication, but you gain some uninterrupted down time from the phone. It has become habit for me to switch my phone to silent while I am winding down for the night. At some point the next day, usually, mid-morning, I’ll turn the ringer back on.

Switching my phone’s ringer on this morning after my talk with my grandma made me think of that first night Kate and I were back from the hospital after London’s birth. I had reached over to my phone on the nightstand and switched it to silent. That immediately felt like a dumb thing to do and it slowly dawned on me that as long as London is in the NICU, my phone will never be on silent. It will rarely be anywhere other than my pocket. Its volume will always be at least 3/4 of max.

For 109 days, I did not want my phone to ring because a call, I assumed, would be bad news. But for 109 days, it was also imperative that I never miss a call or a single text message. If it was the NICU calling, then I could not afford to miss whatever breaking news they had to tell me, no matter how dire it may have been. Nowadays, the smartphone is a natural accessory to our everyday lives and, while we were living out a hyper-alert and worried stage of our lives, it made sense to make sure all avenues of communication stayed open.

When London did come home, I vividly remember taking great pleasure in muting the ringer on my iPhone that first night. It was ceremonial. A little victory. And in the morning, a big victory, not having to hop in the car and drive to the hospital in order to see my daughter.

12 Classics: A Brief History of Time

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Inspired by the recent movie, The Theory of Everything, I picked up a nonfiction classic I had never 60899438read, Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time. I have had this book around the house for five years and I had never cracked it open and, before doing so, I reminded myself that I may understand no more than 5-10 pages of it.

I’m happy to report I may have understood 11. For an English Major, I fared pretty well.

Someone had told Hawking that for every equation he puts in the book the book sales are going to drop by half. Hawking said he vowed to put only one in the book, Einstein’s famous equation. Hawking’s decision helped me understand 11 pages. Had he felt differently, I may not have understood such a high number of pages.

Most of A Brief History of Time was very difficult to follow even without equations thrown in here and there. The pages I really enjoyed were well written explanations of science factoids I had once heard, but had since forgotten, or they were completely new to me. For example, someone somewhere in my past had told me about the possibility of travel at the speed of light, that is, how it’s not really possible. Hawking very thoughtfully explained it this way:

As an object approaches the speed of light, its mass rises ever more quickly, so it takes more and more energy to speed it up further. It can in fact never reach the speed of light, because by then its mass would have become infinite, and by the equivalence of mass and energy, it would have taken an infinite amount of energy to get it there.

Yeah, I had completely forgotten about that. I guess I do not think about traveling at the speed of light enough because if I had I am sure I would have kept the “equivalence of mass and energy” fresh in my mind.

Abundant were the facts in this book that were completely new to me. One that I read over and over again was about the density of White Dwarfs:

…with a radius of a few thousand miles and a density of hundreds of tons per cubic inch.

That’s dense. But wait, there is more. Neutron stars have “a radius of only ten miles or so and a density of hundreds of millions of tons per cubic inch.”

Holy. That is crazy. I kept picturing one of those very popular whiskey rocks and imagining it weighing a hundred million tons. Trying to wrap my head around that made for a sleepy afternoon.

This book made for a lot of sleepy afternoons. Ultimately, I enjoyed it. There were two rewards for finishing A Brief History of Time. One, the typical joy one gets from finishing any book. Two, the deep satisfaction of knowing I will never have the desire or need to pick this book up again. It may as well weigh a million tons now that I have set it down.