From a Cheese Molar to the Normal Meaning of Time
But what’s normal, really?
Maybe it’s driving to work with too many thoughts and only one that lingers: the quiet ache of a father facing his child’s pain.
Nadia’s pain, to be precise. Her cheese molar, as we call it in Dutch: kaaskiesje. In English, it’s known as molar incisor hypomineralisation (MIH), a developmental enamel defect that leaves certain teeth weaker, more sensitive, and prone to decay. It sounds clinical, but when it’s your child’s tooth, it feels deeply personal.
We’ve known about hers for a year now. At her last check-up the dentist spotted early signs of caries and referred us to this paediatric specialist. Not because it was urgent, but because these fragile teeth demand expertise, time, and trust.
The specialist’s approach was a masterclass in patience. The first visit wasn’t about fixing anything; it was about building confidence. Ten seconds of looking inside her mouth, as promised, and the rest spent getting to know her: her temperament, her fears, her story. No rush, no drills, no bright lights of panic.
The plan came in three steps. Step one: a thin protective coating to shield the tooth. Step two: a small stainless steel or white crown to protect it further and keep the enamel intact. Step three, if all else fails: extraction, but only after age nine or ten, when the adult molars are ready to take over. That would happen under full anesthesia, a deep, dreamlike sleep. She’d wake without the tooth and without the memory of losing it.
Even knowing it’s safe doesn’t make it easy. I’ve never feared a dentist’s chair myself, but imagining her in one — drifting under, waking changed — stirs a kind of helpless love that only parenthood teaches.
A Look That Said Everything
Later that morning, Ruth looked at me from the couch — the kind of look that lands softly but stays. Not curiosity, not distraction, but admiration about my parental role. Pure love spoken in the language of recognition. It made me think about balance and harmony. Every child deserves both energies — protector and nurturer — and when life tilts, love finds its way to fill the gaps.
Ruth is so much more than I can ever fit in one sentence. She’s a phenomenal mother and an extraordinary lawyer — the kind who wins unwinnable cases, who stands up for human rights when silence would be safer. She’s the best cook I know, a brilliant mind, and my partner in every sense. Some of her qualities deserve public applause; others are for my eyes only (wink).
Between AI and Eternity
By evening, my thoughts drifted back to another dimension of my life — the one filled with algorithms and questions about consciousness. I stumbled on a YouTube channel called AI in Context. A new creator, a modest channel, yet his first serious video had gone viral. It was beautifully crafted — thoughtful visuals, calm narration, and a message that felt urgent: superintelligence is not just powerful; it’s perilous.
He works with an organization called 80,000 Hours, which sounds almost poetic — like a lifetime measured in purpose. I didn’t agree with every word, but I admired his courage to explore the moral terrain most people skim over.
That video pulled me toward another idea I can never quite leave behind — the Wheeler–DeWitt equation. A real, remarkable theory from quantum gravity, where physicists John Wheeler and Bryce DeWitt dared to describe the universe without referencing time. In their formulation, time isn’t fundamental; it’s something consciousness creates — a way to perceive change.
If that’s true, then maybe everything — Nadia’s molar, Ruth’s glance, my late-night curiosity — already exists all at once. Maybe consciousness is the universe feeling itself, the Egg Theory’s God experiencing its own reflection through each of us.
And maybe, in that light, even pain has purpose. Even decay holds grace.
And so a normal day (re)starts
With teeth and tenderness, admiration and awareness, algorithms and awe — all part of the same eternal pattern, looping quietly beyond time.
What's on your mind?