Bean-girl: Mommy, do you love your two children more than anything and no matter what we do and do you love us more than anything at all in the world and think we are the most wonderful and bestest in all the world?
Um, yes.
Now please don’t make me think about all that when I say it to you. Your mommy hates getting sappy and teary.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Precious memories
You know what's really gross? When your two-year old is sitting on your lap (because she refuses to sit in her own chair)stuffing your scrambled eggs into her mouth with her hands. And then she spits out the scrambled eggs onto your plate. And then she re-stuffs them into her mouth and eats them.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Career crossroads: comments are welcome
When I first took my job last fall, I did so with the understanding that funding for the position was only guaranteed for one year. I took the job thinking that, even if it weren't long-term, it would still be good experience in scientific writing/editing and enable me to start making connections at the only research institute in town. My back-up plan at that time was to go into freelance writing/editing if the position didn't hold up past a year.
Well, the position isn't going to hold up past a year. Not in its current incarnation, at least.
A few months ago, my boss called me into his office to discuss the major restructuring that our institute is undergoing. He told me that he valued my contribution to his program, and that he wanted to do all he could to keep me on. He said that he might have to let people go in the future, but that he wanted to keep my position, and that he would move funds around to do this. He said that he wanted to assure me of this.
You can guess the rest. Frankly, I could guess it as well.
The changes are coming fast and furious, and the program under which I was hired will soon be eliminated. My institute is undergoing a painful transition from a haven where PIs enjoyed stable internal funding to a place where the PIs have to go out and get their own RO1s to support themselves and their labs—just like at regular medical schools/research universities.
My contract ends this fall and will not be renewed. My PI has asked if I will continue to work for him on a contract/freelance basis after my regular position ends. I admitted to him that I’d been thinking of stepping down to a contract position anyway.
And in the opposite direction of work/life balance, I’ve also been thinking about going back into the lab.
You know that post I wrote about not missing the bench? I lied.
I wasn’t lying at the time I wrote it. But lately I’ve been feeling the itch to get back into the lab and pick up a pipetman. It started as I was finishing up my RO1. Yes, I’ll call it “my” RO1; it wasn’t submitted in my name and I didn’t do any of the experiments the proposal is based upon. But I wrote the whole damn thing de novo; I conceived half the experiments and I went a long way toward developing the rest. And having conceived and developed those experiments, I’d love the chance to do some of them.
That will probably not happen, of course. But now I have the itch.
The NIH funds RO1 administrative supplements to promote the re-entry of women into biomedical research after time away for family responsibilities. This year, a few PIs at my institute were awarded their first RO1s. That means there are now labs here that are qualified to sponsor me for one of these supplements. The supplement would fund salary with additional money for travel/supplies, and is renewable for up to three years.
So what to do? Down one fork, I could possibly head back into the lab. Back to the maelstrom, with all the stress and drudgery that entails. Down the other road, I could kick up my heels as a freelance writer/editor. I could do contract work with my PI, renew some other contacts, do the freelance hustle. I would work from home and pick up my kids early from school each day. And I could make room to pursue my own interests in creative writing. I could write fiction. There, I said it—I have dreamed of being a fiction writer. It’s a dream I never really had the courage/recklessness/hubris/drive to pursue.** But I could do it now. Um, maybe. (Gee, maybe I just like the dream of being a fiction writer better than the actual work of writing?)
So what to do?
I miss the lab. But what would really be the point of a second postdoc, even if I found a good lab to take me in? A postdoc is supposed to be a temporary training position, a stepping stone to an independent position. I’m realistic enough to realize that I will probably never ever attain an independent position. Even if a second postdoc went gangbusters and I published in the GlamourMagz, I still have severe geographical limitations on where I can apply for work. And I don’t want the headache of PI-dom anyway.
I’d like to work as a staff research scientist, a perma-postdoc. There are a good number of such people here. But my guess is that these positions will be increasingly hard to come by as budgets get slashed; staff scientists will just be too expensive for most PIs here, just as they are too expensive for most people at traditional academic institutions.
So what do I do, friends? If I turn my back forever now on research, is it giving in to my fears and self-doubt? On the other hand, if I run back to the lab and turn my back on my hesitant dream of creative writing—is that giving into fear and self-doubt?
Comments are welcome.
*I know what my little girls would like. More mommy time!
**I did actually publish my first short story in a literary journal this spring. But I wrote that story months before it actually appeared, and I haven’t written anything since. I thought getting published would make me feel validated as a writer, and it did. . . for about a day.
Well, the position isn't going to hold up past a year. Not in its current incarnation, at least.
A few months ago, my boss called me into his office to discuss the major restructuring that our institute is undergoing. He told me that he valued my contribution to his program, and that he wanted to do all he could to keep me on. He said that he might have to let people go in the future, but that he wanted to keep my position, and that he would move funds around to do this. He said that he wanted to assure me of this.
You can guess the rest. Frankly, I could guess it as well.
The changes are coming fast and furious, and the program under which I was hired will soon be eliminated. My institute is undergoing a painful transition from a haven where PIs enjoyed stable internal funding to a place where the PIs have to go out and get their own RO1s to support themselves and their labs—just like at regular medical schools/research universities.
My contract ends this fall and will not be renewed. My PI has asked if I will continue to work for him on a contract/freelance basis after my regular position ends. I admitted to him that I’d been thinking of stepping down to a contract position anyway.
And in the opposite direction of work/life balance, I’ve also been thinking about going back into the lab.
You know that post I wrote about not missing the bench? I lied.
I wasn’t lying at the time I wrote it. But lately I’ve been feeling the itch to get back into the lab and pick up a pipetman. It started as I was finishing up my RO1. Yes, I’ll call it “my” RO1; it wasn’t submitted in my name and I didn’t do any of the experiments the proposal is based upon. But I wrote the whole damn thing de novo; I conceived half the experiments and I went a long way toward developing the rest. And having conceived and developed those experiments, I’d love the chance to do some of them.
That will probably not happen, of course. But now I have the itch.
The NIH funds RO1 administrative supplements to promote the re-entry of women into biomedical research after time away for family responsibilities. This year, a few PIs at my institute were awarded their first RO1s. That means there are now labs here that are qualified to sponsor me for one of these supplements. The supplement would fund salary with additional money for travel/supplies, and is renewable for up to three years.
So what to do? Down one fork, I could possibly head back into the lab. Back to the maelstrom, with all the stress and drudgery that entails. Down the other road, I could kick up my heels as a freelance writer/editor. I could do contract work with my PI, renew some other contacts, do the freelance hustle. I would work from home and pick up my kids early from school each day. And I could make room to pursue my own interests in creative writing. I could write fiction. There, I said it—I have dreamed of being a fiction writer. It’s a dream I never really had the courage/recklessness/hubris/drive to pursue.** But I could do it now. Um, maybe. (Gee, maybe I just like the dream of being a fiction writer better than the actual work of writing?)
So what to do?
I miss the lab. But what would really be the point of a second postdoc, even if I found a good lab to take me in? A postdoc is supposed to be a temporary training position, a stepping stone to an independent position. I’m realistic enough to realize that I will probably never ever attain an independent position. Even if a second postdoc went gangbusters and I published in the GlamourMagz, I still have severe geographical limitations on where I can apply for work. And I don’t want the headache of PI-dom anyway.
I’d like to work as a staff research scientist, a perma-postdoc. There are a good number of such people here. But my guess is that these positions will be increasingly hard to come by as budgets get slashed; staff scientists will just be too expensive for most PIs here, just as they are too expensive for most people at traditional academic institutions.
So what do I do, friends? If I turn my back forever now on research, is it giving in to my fears and self-doubt? On the other hand, if I run back to the lab and turn my back on my hesitant dream of creative writing—is that giving into fear and self-doubt?
Comments are welcome.
*I know what my little girls would like. More mommy time!
**I did actually publish my first short story in a literary journal this spring. But I wrote that story months before it actually appeared, and I haven’t written anything since. I thought getting published would make me feel validated as a writer, and it did. . . for about a day.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Weekend moments
What is it about children and bugs? Bean-girl is indifferent to the bright finches and cardinals that come to our bird-feeder, but is held rapt at the sight of an ant on the ground. Ladybugs, caterpillars, spiders and worms—all are fascinating, no matter how many times she’s seen them before. Legume is similarly thrilled.
This weekend I bought the girls a bug-hunting kit from a local nature center. One of the best six dollars I’ve ever spent. A simple net, a cheap pair of binoculars and magnifying class (which are too out-of-focus to really let you distinguish anything), and this nifty little bug-catcher, two halves of a plastic ball mounted on what look like the edges of scissors. You squeeze the handles of the bug-catcher together and the plastic halves close in and trap the bug in a sphere (studded with breathing holes, to boot).
The past two evenings we’ve been on bug-hunting walks. Bean-girl was absolutely thrilled to come upon a wriggling red worm on the sidewalk and carefully placed her net over the worm, proud that she’d finally caught something. She was so proud that, in fact, she “caught” the worm several times, repeatedly putting the net over it and then taking it off. Various ants and beetles on the sidewalk were caught in similar fashion. Legume grabbed the plastic ball bug-catcher and proceeded to flip bugs on their backs and pound/grind them to oblivion. There was a nasty moment when I thought she would do the same to a second worm we encountered, and I picked her up (howling her dismay) to prevent this occurrence.
Tonight we headed down the hill behind our house and through the open campus of the community rec center, skirting the edges of wild prairie-grass. Bean-girl thrashed the tall grass with her net. Legume plunged down a small path someone had trampled in the grass, and we had no choice but to follow her. Gnats and small grasshoppers (?) hopped and whirred, too fast for Bean-girl to deliberately catch. Then, heading back home, she noticed that her net was full of tiny bugs after all, prompting a moment of serious study, then much shaking to be rid of them.
**********************************************************************
Tonight I put Bean-girl to sleep and Husband put Legume to bed. As Bean-girl and I said goodnight to Legume, Legume waved happily (not crying for once). Unprompted, she said for the first time on her own, “I love oo.” And then, “Have a good night.”
This weekend I bought the girls a bug-hunting kit from a local nature center. One of the best six dollars I’ve ever spent. A simple net, a cheap pair of binoculars and magnifying class (which are too out-of-focus to really let you distinguish anything), and this nifty little bug-catcher, two halves of a plastic ball mounted on what look like the edges of scissors. You squeeze the handles of the bug-catcher together and the plastic halves close in and trap the bug in a sphere (studded with breathing holes, to boot).
The past two evenings we’ve been on bug-hunting walks. Bean-girl was absolutely thrilled to come upon a wriggling red worm on the sidewalk and carefully placed her net over the worm, proud that she’d finally caught something. She was so proud that, in fact, she “caught” the worm several times, repeatedly putting the net over it and then taking it off. Various ants and beetles on the sidewalk were caught in similar fashion. Legume grabbed the plastic ball bug-catcher and proceeded to flip bugs on their backs and pound/grind them to oblivion. There was a nasty moment when I thought she would do the same to a second worm we encountered, and I picked her up (howling her dismay) to prevent this occurrence.
Tonight we headed down the hill behind our house and through the open campus of the community rec center, skirting the edges of wild prairie-grass. Bean-girl thrashed the tall grass with her net. Legume plunged down a small path someone had trampled in the grass, and we had no choice but to follow her. Gnats and small grasshoppers (?) hopped and whirred, too fast for Bean-girl to deliberately catch. Then, heading back home, she noticed that her net was full of tiny bugs after all, prompting a moment of serious study, then much shaking to be rid of them.
**********************************************************************
Tonight I put Bean-girl to sleep and Husband put Legume to bed. As Bean-girl and I said goodnight to Legume, Legume waved happily (not crying for once). Unprompted, she said for the first time on her own, “I love oo.” And then, “Have a good night.”
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Welcome, two.
The cousins invaded last week, as I’d been warning Bean-girl for weeks. My sister-in-law and her four children arrived for their first visit to our home. I now have the barest inkling of the life Jon and Kate Gosselin might lead (minus tabloids and product endorsements, of course). When food landed on the kitchen table, it seemed to instantaneously vanish under the serving ladle. Whole bags of fruit—cherries, strawberries, grapes—evaporated from the fridge. The fridge mysteriously cleared itself out every evening. We go through four gallons of milk a week, my sister-in-law told me, and it’s no exaggeration. Little girls were everywhere in our house—laughing, chattering, long hair swinging. Bean-girl was in heaven, with the attention of four cousins, three of them sudden “older sisters” to play with. After her initial reservations, Legume warmed up and also plunged into the noise and chaos.
My husband’s amazing sister has triplet pre-teens—three 10-year old girls. Plus one fifteen year old boy. All of them beautiful and charming, with no trace of fabled teen sulkiness. It strikes me how young they all seem to me. I thought ten would seem old compared to Bean-girl’s four—isn’t ten practically puberty these days, according to media reports? But ten is still very much an age of childhood. My ten year old nieces can make their own sandwiches, scramble their own eggs. But they also still play games of make-believe. They giggle as madly at nonsensical jokes as any four-year old. They’re all in a zillion sports—track, swim team, horseback riding. They’ve read the Stephanie Meijer “Twilight” series and tell me that these books are all the rage in their school (a statement which rather took me aback). Yet they clamor Mommy, mommy! in the same tones as a preschooler demanding for their mother to Look at this! See me! Help me! Pay attention!
And the fifteen year old boy, despite having a drivers’ permit, seems young to me as well. Still affectionate with his younger sisters, unapologetically close to his family—none of the reserve that I imagined would come with his age, or the reserve that I imagine I felt at that age (and did I? Can I really remember?) Still so young they all seem—open and unguarded as summer blooms.
Bean-girl and Legume stayed home with their father and relatives all of last week. Husband took the week off work (I had to go into work, alas). Nearly every day brought an outing for the kids—to the zoo, the botanical gardens, the beach. Nights brought popcorn and movies at home. Despite the crowd, I will say that my kitchen was neater than it usually is, with conscientious house-guests jumping up to lend a hand. And there were four older kids to keep an eye on Bean-girl and Legume, to take them outside to play or entertain them while the adults cleaned up and maybe even relaxed.
Bean-girl bonded most especially with cousin M. They spent hours together, just the two of them. Holed up in Bean-girl’s room telling stories, playing with stuffed animals, cuddling in bed. One of their favorite games was one in which Bean-girl pretended she was M and M pretended that she was Bean-girl. They found this game endlessly, inexplicably amusing.
And in the midst of all this, Legume turned two. Exactly one week ago. It wasn’t a well-thought out party. My gifts, I’m rather ashamed to say, were picked up at a local toy store that very evening. Auntie E and the cousins made a cake. Helium balloons were left over from a trip to the grandparents the day before. Legume sat bemused in her high chair and ate her cake. She enjoyed her gifts, particularly the cheap $2 wind-up duck she chose for herself at the toy store. Two-year olds are easily impressed.
She is sleeping now, my little girl. I’ve been denying it, but my baby walked away from me months ago. When I wasn’t looking, a little girl took her place.
Hi there, big little girl Legume.
My husband’s amazing sister has triplet pre-teens—three 10-year old girls. Plus one fifteen year old boy. All of them beautiful and charming, with no trace of fabled teen sulkiness. It strikes me how young they all seem to me. I thought ten would seem old compared to Bean-girl’s four—isn’t ten practically puberty these days, according to media reports? But ten is still very much an age of childhood. My ten year old nieces can make their own sandwiches, scramble their own eggs. But they also still play games of make-believe. They giggle as madly at nonsensical jokes as any four-year old. They’re all in a zillion sports—track, swim team, horseback riding. They’ve read the Stephanie Meijer “Twilight” series and tell me that these books are all the rage in their school (a statement which rather took me aback). Yet they clamor Mommy, mommy! in the same tones as a preschooler demanding for their mother to Look at this! See me! Help me! Pay attention!
And the fifteen year old boy, despite having a drivers’ permit, seems young to me as well. Still affectionate with his younger sisters, unapologetically close to his family—none of the reserve that I imagined would come with his age, or the reserve that I imagine I felt at that age (and did I? Can I really remember?) Still so young they all seem—open and unguarded as summer blooms.
Bean-girl and Legume stayed home with their father and relatives all of last week. Husband took the week off work (I had to go into work, alas). Nearly every day brought an outing for the kids—to the zoo, the botanical gardens, the beach. Nights brought popcorn and movies at home. Despite the crowd, I will say that my kitchen was neater than it usually is, with conscientious house-guests jumping up to lend a hand. And there were four older kids to keep an eye on Bean-girl and Legume, to take them outside to play or entertain them while the adults cleaned up and maybe even relaxed.
Bean-girl bonded most especially with cousin M. They spent hours together, just the two of them. Holed up in Bean-girl’s room telling stories, playing with stuffed animals, cuddling in bed. One of their favorite games was one in which Bean-girl pretended she was M and M pretended that she was Bean-girl. They found this game endlessly, inexplicably amusing.
And in the midst of all this, Legume turned two. Exactly one week ago. It wasn’t a well-thought out party. My gifts, I’m rather ashamed to say, were picked up at a local toy store that very evening. Auntie E and the cousins made a cake. Helium balloons were left over from a trip to the grandparents the day before. Legume sat bemused in her high chair and ate her cake. She enjoyed her gifts, particularly the cheap $2 wind-up duck she chose for herself at the toy store. Two-year olds are easily impressed.
She is sleeping now, my little girl. I’ve been denying it, but my baby walked away from me months ago. When I wasn’t looking, a little girl took her place.
Hi there, big little girl Legume.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Grant writing crunch
--Bean-girl was in her first big dance recital this past weekend. She and her friends did wonderfully!
--Legume is walking up and down the stairs by herself, putting on her pants by herself, talking a lot more, and growing up too fast.
--I am in the home stretch of grant writing purgatory.
--And I was amazed to read this article in the New York times and learn that "Rooster brand" Sriracha sauce is made in America. All my life I've assumed it was a Thai import.
Okay, back to my stack of scientific journal articles. I've missed you, oh blogosphere, and promise to be back soon.
love,
Bean-mom
--Legume is walking up and down the stairs by herself, putting on her pants by herself, talking a lot more, and growing up too fast.
--I am in the home stretch of grant writing purgatory.
--And I was amazed to read this article in the New York times and learn that "Rooster brand" Sriracha sauce is made in America. All my life I've assumed it was a Thai import.
Okay, back to my stack of scientific journal articles. I've missed you, oh blogosphere, and promise to be back soon.
love,
Bean-mom
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Inspiration: Rachel Carson, scientist and writer
I belong to the Council of Science editors and receive their monthly news publication, “Science Editor.” April’s issue had an eye-opening profile of Rachel Carson, the environmental activist best known for her book, “Silent Spring.”
I admit that I’ve never read “Silent Spring” or any of her other books. Actually, I know almost nothing of Carson other than that she was a famous environmental activist best known for “Silent Spring.” But the article I read makes it clear that Rachel Carson was a remarkable person with a remarkable career path and life. And it brought home to me (yet again) that career paths are often unpredictable, that they turn and twist in unexpected ways, and that long-held dreams can blossom late in unlooked-for spaces.
Adapted from “Rachel Carson, Science Editor” by Olga Kuchment. Science Editor (April 2009) Vol 32: 39-42. (Too bad there’s no online access to the journal!)
Rachel Carter was born in a rural setting in 1907. She started writing at an early age, and early on she dreamed of becoming a professional writer. But she was introduced to zoology at the Pennsylvania College for Women (now Chatham College) and fell in love with the subject. She switched her major from English to zoology and decided to become a scientist. At the time she “thought she would have to give up writing.” (Kuchment, 2009).
She earned a master’s degree in zoology from Johns Hopkins University and tried to continue for a Ph.D. But her family was poor, the Great Depression hit, and she was unable to afford the tuition to continue her training. (Hmmm, seems you actually had to pay for a science Ph.D. in those days?) Rachel Carson became the main economic support for her widowed mother, sister, and nieces. She took a job at the U.S. Bureau of Fisheries, where she wrote scripts for a radio program on marine biology. The radio scripts jump-started her writing career; she reworked the scripts into articles that were published in the Baltimore Sun. On the urging of her boss, she reworked one of her government assignments into an article that was published in The Atlantic. She secured a book deal and wrote her first book “Under the Sea Wind.”
Her first book was not a commercial success, and she stayed on as a scientific writer/editor with the government for many years, eventually rising to the position of editor-in-chief of the publishing program of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Kuchment’s article in the Science Editor quotes interviews from admiring colleagues who praised Carson as both an editor/scientist and person. Carson continued to work on personal writing projects in her spare time, and eventually hit commercial success with “The Sea Around Us.” She then retired from her civil service job and worked full-time on her own writing projects. “Silent Spring” was her last book.
I love this story. A dream deferred, put aside—the early dream of being a professional writer. A new dream and its loss—what a bitter pill it must have been to not be able to finish her Ph.D.! But then the marrying of interests—her initial job title with the government was “junior aquatic biologist”; she went out into the field and interacted with scientists; it seems that one could still call her a scientist, as well as a writer/editor. And then, at the age of 45, the realization of her dream to work full-time as a creative writer pursuing her own interests. Interests that sprang directly from her training and love for science.
I admit that I’ve never read “Silent Spring” or any of her other books. Actually, I know almost nothing of Carson other than that she was a famous environmental activist best known for “Silent Spring.” But the article I read makes it clear that Rachel Carson was a remarkable person with a remarkable career path and life. And it brought home to me (yet again) that career paths are often unpredictable, that they turn and twist in unexpected ways, and that long-held dreams can blossom late in unlooked-for spaces.
Adapted from “Rachel Carson, Science Editor” by Olga Kuchment. Science Editor (April 2009) Vol 32: 39-42. (Too bad there’s no online access to the journal!)
Rachel Carter was born in a rural setting in 1907. She started writing at an early age, and early on she dreamed of becoming a professional writer. But she was introduced to zoology at the Pennsylvania College for Women (now Chatham College) and fell in love with the subject. She switched her major from English to zoology and decided to become a scientist. At the time she “thought she would have to give up writing.” (Kuchment, 2009).
She earned a master’s degree in zoology from Johns Hopkins University and tried to continue for a Ph.D. But her family was poor, the Great Depression hit, and she was unable to afford the tuition to continue her training. (Hmmm, seems you actually had to pay for a science Ph.D. in those days?) Rachel Carson became the main economic support for her widowed mother, sister, and nieces. She took a job at the U.S. Bureau of Fisheries, where she wrote scripts for a radio program on marine biology. The radio scripts jump-started her writing career; she reworked the scripts into articles that were published in the Baltimore Sun. On the urging of her boss, she reworked one of her government assignments into an article that was published in The Atlantic. She secured a book deal and wrote her first book “Under the Sea Wind.”
Her first book was not a commercial success, and she stayed on as a scientific writer/editor with the government for many years, eventually rising to the position of editor-in-chief of the publishing program of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Kuchment’s article in the Science Editor quotes interviews from admiring colleagues who praised Carson as both an editor/scientist and person. Carson continued to work on personal writing projects in her spare time, and eventually hit commercial success with “The Sea Around Us.” She then retired from her civil service job and worked full-time on her own writing projects. “Silent Spring” was her last book.
I love this story. A dream deferred, put aside—the early dream of being a professional writer. A new dream and its loss—what a bitter pill it must have been to not be able to finish her Ph.D.! But then the marrying of interests—her initial job title with the government was “junior aquatic biologist”; she went out into the field and interacted with scientists; it seems that one could still call her a scientist, as well as a writer/editor. And then, at the age of 45, the realization of her dream to work full-time as a creative writer pursuing her own interests. Interests that sprang directly from her training and love for science.
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