Suburban Bliss:: Birth Control Via The Written Word

Not doing it. No.

Today, as I paid for my small basket of groceries, the check out girl said, "You need milk, diet coke and Life cereal? I thought you needed to lose weight?"

Yesterday, at the dentist, he looked at my molars and said, "Your incisors are lovely. Just not overweight like you."

The other day, at the Flog, on an entirely unrelated (to my fucking weight) post about housekeepers and instilling into children a sense of entitlement, "Doesn't cleaning a house burn calories? Don't you need to lose some weight."

So no, since you asked, no I'm not ready to write anything here.

The fortunate thing is I have nothing to say. It's funny though how over half of my 'anonymous' email and 'anonymous' comments come from an SBC/Ameritech ISP. It's starting to make me think all SBC/Ameritech users are unpleasant and unhappy people.

I have a headache.

Wow, even disagreeing with another blogger gets you called names! Woooo!

I disagree, admit that I'm seeing things with a red hot topic button blazing red and still I'm called, fat and lazy and miserable and those types of things. Sometimes I just want to pinch you right on your petoskies* Internet. (*Max's new favorite name for his behind.)

A friend and I had a long talk about the whole weight posting of last week and we agreed that usually I am able to let to opposing thoughts hang in the same area. Usually I'm able to say, 'There are a million right ways."

But this has been very different for me and it's because of this: I spent years in therapy being told that my body was not who I was. That putting on weight would not make me a bad person. That my outside was not who I was. I've worked really hard to believe that over the years.

Sometimes other opinions are directly opposed to those things I need so badly to believe. I have to believe that weight doesn't matter, that I'm okay no matter what size my pants are. That life is okay no matter what size my pants are.

But then I also have to accept the reality that people view you differently with extra weight on your body. That you present a different person to the outside world. And all of that flies in the face of those things I had to believe to make myself eat like a normal person again.

It's proven very difficult to have both those thoughts in my head at the same time. I was supposed to believe that weight didn't matter, but then I also have to believe that weight does matter. Knowing that weight does matter gives me a horrible tingling of anxiety in my stomach.

The problem is the thought of trying to control my body, or do whatever it takes to remain who I was as a younger person....it makes me feel like dying.

I'm not simply laying around waiting for a crane to come and carry me out of the house. I am doing what I'm willing to do but I just don't want to, can't force myself to focus on working out as much as it would require for me to be thin.

But then I'm back at the weight does matter....

And so I'm depressed.

I'm sad one person's opinion opened her up to vicious and ugly personal attacks. I'm sorry my personal opinion opened me up for the same. But I really shouldn't be surprised anymore.

I'm really sorry weight matters so much because it all seems like such a waste of energy.

But you know what wouldn't be a waste of time? Taking this survey. I'm sorry to ask you twice but this one's super short and don't you love talking about yourself anyway? And it's all anonymous, so you can give your opinion and no one's going to call you a lazy bitch who's way uglier than her husband.

Lucky you.

Mother burned at the stake, father eats cake.

What do Moxie, Rusty Yates and my feelings have in common?

Moxie's post about the Morphing Into Mama debacle (and, yes, I'm now calling it a debacle, I'd tell you more about that but this post isn't about that) focused a bit on a woman's role in parenting and family and how much of that success (or failure) falls on her shoulders.

Then there's Rusty Yates who got remarried this last weekend just two days before his now, ex-wife goes on a second trial for the horrifying murders of their five children.

Then there's my feelings and my feelings have no handy link. I cringed when I read this minister's statement saying, "Yates chose to move on with his life while resisting temptation to pity himself or seek revenge on people who may have wronged him."

Was Rusty Yates wronged? Or did he wrong others?

This is the question that haunts me. Seeing Andrea Yates on trial bothers me in a vague way, not because I don't think she has responsibility for what she did. But because I wonder where the children's father is in all this.

Parenthood is a partnership and sometimes it seems that so much of the success of a family falls squarely on a mother's shoulders. Not in every situation obviously, but there are some fathers who are awfully removed from what is happening at home as they do their very hard work making enough money to keep the family working.

I just wonder where Rusty Yates' responsibility ends.

I don't know him or Andrea Yates. I don't know what he did or did not do to help his wife and the mother of his children. Andrea Yates must answer for her actions, psychotic or not....five children are dead.

But I wonder where Rusty Yates responsibility is in this tragedy and it bothers me that he has been able to walk away and remarry. Has he answered for his part in the murders of his children?

Obviously I don't know, but it really bothers me in a deep way to see the father in this situation moving forward while the mother is vilified.

Nyquil kicking in in 5, 4, 3.....zzzzzz

I'm on a strict 12 hour dayquil to nyquil regimen right now. I promised myself I would not complain about a simple cold unless I had a sore throat. I don't have a sore throat so you won't hear another word about my illness. Also I stabbed myself in the leg today (an actual puncture wound!) at Max's school, so I'm just thinking enough is enough. With the cold and the dayquil and nyquil, just call it a day.

Oh God that last post. And all the discussion around it, I'm lazy so I'm sending you to Tertia's because she has a nice set of links to all the discussions.

I emailed with MIM yesterday and I'm so surprised at the turn her comments took and even Metrodad's statement, "I never get involved when women argue." Were we arguing? I felt like we were expressing our own thoughts on the topic, which is something so many of us have obviously considered at some point along the way because otherwise these feelings would not be so impassioned.

MIM had to shut down comments because things got a little out of hand with the personal attacks.

The sad part is, I think what I read and what MIM was saying are two totally different things. I think what you read and what I read and what MIM was saying are two, wait three totally different things.

I reacted to what MIM wrote based on the ugly conversations Logan and I have had in the last 3-4 years of our marriage. I reacted because I question myself daily about how I'm caring for me. I just....

Nyquil kicking in quickly. Must type. While coherent.

This entire discussion is so interesting in how it grows out of one person's view and becomes about everyone's personal experiences. The lenses we view things with are all skewed by our experiences. MIM never said a wife should be rail thin, but that's what I heard because to be who I was when I married Logan, I'd have to be a rail thin woman. There were a lot of things she didn't say which have somehow, in the train wreck of the internet, been attributed to her. That is unfortunate.

I got a couple of emails telling me not to listen to 'that woman' and I thought, "Oh god, I better check my comments....what did someone say?'"

They were referring to MIM? I was spring boarding off that post and I was doing it with my own lens. That lens is from my perspective as an eating disordered girl, as the wife of an often inappropriate spouse and as a woman who is constantly struggling with body image and self esteem. That's all.

MIM wasn't referring to me personally. She isn't referring to you. I think the conversation is valid, not because 'She's just mean' or because 'She's so totally right' but because it makes you think, "Why do I think she's right?' or 'Why do I think she's wrong?'

No reason for personal attacks.

No reason to fight the nyquil.

As a springboard to my cryptic post about Andrea Yates' husband getting remarried, I'd like to tell you I'm considering Moxie's post about this weight and marriage and false advertising thing and I think the two tie in.

How could that be? You're asking yourself. But that just makes no sense!

Oh but in my mind it does and I put a sticky note right over there on the iBook's desktop to remind me I was thinking about this tomorrow morning when the Nyquil releases me and I move on to the Dayquil.

Tomorrow I"m going to try really hard not to stab myself in the leg.

[Update 3/23: I don't think anyone was talking about anyone else specifically. The thing though about generalizations about large groups of people: youre going to end up talking about someone. So even though MIM wasn't talking about me specifically, she was talking about me generally. And that is why I was irritated by her comments. Why I disagreed with her. I didn't need to personally attack her, but yes, I'm annoyed more than I was last night when I wrote this.]

Hooray! My favorite topic....being fat!

Well Jesus, this has gotten into my bones. (For this post, which is being frantically written before playgroup, to make sense you have to read this.)

I've talked about my weight before and it continues to be an issue. I'm working out and trying to make some subtle changes but the thought of obsessing over my body is just, not working for me. Instead I"m obsessing over how disgusted I am with myself, so that's incredibly productive.

So I read the piece at Morphing into Mama and I went and read this piece as well. Logan and I have had several of these types of 'Don't you love me enough to be your best physically?' conversations and I hate them.

It's sort of ironic because Logan's weight loss and obsession with his appearance and also his obsession with mine has made me less attracted to him frankly. So we're in the same boat I guess. Was it false advertising that he wasn't metrosexual when we met and now is? That he wasn't so superficial then but is now?

I've lost my ability to be cohesive, it's this that's sucked me dry.

I didn't weigh 110 pounds on my wedding day because I was trying to lure a man in. I dated a total of 3 people before Logan, I wasn't exactly luring anyone in. I was an insecure girl, recovering from an eating disorder, who honestly wasn't all that hungry most of the time.

I worked about as hard at being 110 pounds as I do at being the massive weight I am now. I didn't give it a whole lot of thought by the time I met Logan. Yes, I worried in the back of my head what would happen as I got older. But I didn't count calories and I didn't spend hours at the gym and I ate McDonald's in my car every day on my 50 mile commute.

I know why I've gained this weight and it's not because I disrespect myself. For all the self loathing I'm filled with, I like myself a whole lot more than I did at 20.

I gained all this weight because I care about working out and limiting my eating (and more importantly drinking) habits about as much as I did when I weighed 110 pounds. Which is: not all that much.

What's changed? Not my desire to be attractive. In fact nothing has changed except my time is no longer my own, my metabolism has changed over time and I have not changed all that much to compensate for those things.

I was lazy then and I'm lazy now. My body was able to compensate for that laziness when I was young, now I'm older and my body grew fat cells while I was pregnant it's just more than happy to refill.

I just wanted to be then and I just want to be now. Only now just being means being unhappy with my appearance. It has nothing at all to do with what I was willing to give my husband before and what I'm willing to give him now.

The weight is hard enough for me to process alone, much less with the guilt factor heaped on top of it. Yes my husband married me when I was 110 pounds. He also married me before I had kids and before I was 30 and before a lot of other things happened to both of us. What's especially amusing is if you asked my husband if he'd want me to be the same person I was at 110 pounds I have no doubt he would say no. He loves the person I am now far more. Because I know who I am more, I have less insecurities (which I know is impossible for you to believe Internet...I know!) and I am more sure of who I am and where I fit in this world. I wish I could have it all but I'm finding it hard to believe I could be that thin (and do all the work being that thin would now require of me) and who I am now.

I have more to say about this but I can't right now I have to go.

[It's important to note: at the end of this post I acknowledged that Logan had apologized and admitted that his issue with my weight was more his than mine. I didn't bring it up because of Logan (who has said next to nothing about my weight since that September debacle.]

Max is Five!

Watching Max arrive was an incredibly surreal experience. No pain like with Madison's arrival but I wasn't able to think too hard about his arrival because as I watched them pull him from my abdomen...let's just say that's really weird and if you thought about it too much you'd vomit or pass out.

There were a few reasons I was thrilled Max was born on March 20th. I could not stand being pregnant for another minute, my body hurt and I'd already lost my voice twice from the incredible digestive acid eating at my throat. I couldn't sleep and it was also during those months Madison discovered that even though I said, "Don't run away from me." I couldn't actually do much about it once she went running.

I was also happy because I wanted a spring baby and Logan had been laid off two weeks earlier meaning we had about two more weeks left in our insurance grace period and three whole weeks until his actual due date.

Forget spicy food and nightly sex, the best way to bring on labor is to face complete financial ruin and paying for a c section delivery out of pocket. If only I'd known that when pregnant with Madison who was two weeks late and refused to budge.

I hate to go on and on about how much I love Max, because it's hard to say it in a new way. We all love our kids like this. Though I love Max differently than I love Madison. There's something in Madison which makes her my kindred spirit. She's smart and thinks things to death and all of that makes me think of what a complex woman she will be and I love that about her.

With Max, things are more simple. There was a time when Max was 9 months old where I'd catch myself staring at him with a stupid grin on my face. He's just utterly and completely loveable. He loves to laugh and have fun and he loves to be around people who like to laugh as much as he does.

It freaks me out a little bit to see my youngest child turning five, it freaks me out more than I was expecting actually. But then it's so fun watching Max have a life outside of us, to see him in school learning and making the teachers fall in love with him, to see him making buddies he loves with all his heart.

Watching him turn five is just watching him do more of the same. I can't wait to see what six brings.

Happy Birthday Max!

(You can see Max's bowling party here.)

(I'm still thinking about the Yates thing. I don't have time to form my feelings into a meaningful post. But I'll try...do not hold your breath.)

This is bothering me. A lot.

(Sorry, forgot the link.)

How long will this response work?

Logan went to see a concert tonight.

I have a maddening crush on Ben Folds and guess who Logan went to see tonight? Yes. That's it.

I started to say, "Gah...this isn't fair...."

But Logan stopped me.

Ahem.

Will I never be allowed to whine again? I want to blame Amsterdam for this but maybe I'll just keep blaming Canada. Thanks a lot Canada.

On the other hand, almost all of Ben Folds' music makes me sob, like park-in-the-driveway-&-finish-the-song-while-sobbing, sobbing. If anyone remembers my crying face, that wouldn't serve anyone's best interest.

And, they kept the capers out....

After I came home from Amsterdam things were very very bad financially. Things came up while I was away, a car repair, a new car, several international phone calls (including one particularly tearful one from Canada). Since we live without credit, the trip sapped our savings.

All these things which needed immediate attention came up and sapped us of the capitalist creature comfort of having more than enough money to buy a dinner at McDonald's. It left us with a big fat zero.

Things were unpleasant last week and I didn't want to write about it because things are so much better than last year. To complain now would be ridiculous considering the heinous mess that was last year. Mostly I tried to remain drunk last week, building up bitter bile for Canada, waiting for payday.

Payday finally came and we're getting back on track but I couldn't do Chop Shop this month because rebuilding savings plans means (almost) no extras. But all my friends went and they made some meals for me to load into my freezer. This means they're all worthy of a make out session.

But it gets better, they took the capers out of the recipes and put them in a separate bag. If that's not what love looks like to you, then you must think Pearson International is the best airport in the world and I just can't relate to you anymore.

Canada, oh, Canada.

Last month, God proved he loves me and I went to Antsterdam. (Those are related items.)

Before I could go to Hamsterdam I had to stop in Canada.

I have a long history of anthromorphizing Canada. It's not just me it's my sister too. She's the one who said during the big black out of 2003, when some fireworks went off in a northernly direction: "Oh God, they blew up Canada. Oh our gentle brother to the north....no, not Canada!!!!!"

This outburst may have involved herbs, or maybe not, I'm not sure. All I know is it wasn't the first time I spoke to Canada as if it was an entity and not just a country full of many specific people. I don't just pick on Canada either, I've also admonished Ohio for throwing all those beer bottles into Lake Eerie and making a mess for Canada to pick up.

I like to think of Canada as a little brother I give a wedgie to every once in a while.

On my way to AntsAreInTheJam, bad things happened to me in Toronto. At Pearson specifically.

I may have known Canada was not on my side when I boarded a very small plane on the actual tarmack in Detroit, this just didn't seem safe. But was that Canada's fault? Maybe Canada wanted me to board the plane from a normal tunnel from the exit in the airport and Canada just couldn't work that out. I was willing to give Canada the benefit of the doubt.

The flight was fine but there were 30 empty seats in our 60 seat plane and the man sitting next to me refused to move. Yes, I know I could have moved but I was in the window seat and had my huge bags, I was a sherpa honestly, with me to pummel the people around me. Still, the guy next to me wouldn't move to any of the other 18 entirely free rows in the plane, I counted them all.

This was my first impression of Canada, and I wondered, does Canada think I'll be insulted if someone gets up and moves away from me during a flight? Is this what Canada does? Likes to stick to the rules? I never knew this about Canada, but okay fine, we can snuggle up in this tiny plane when there's lots of room to stretch out all over.

Once I arrived in Toronto I realized quickly: these people aren't Canadian....they're French. The french are rude. Everyone was speaking english, but I felt confused, disoriented by all the french signs around. I honestly felt mentally disabled and having to catch a bus from the tiniest airport terminal ever to the regular terminal didn't help. This never happened to me in America.

I had a very long layover in this place they call "Canada" but thought I would get myself checked in for my KLM flight so that I could spend the rest of the afternoon reading, writing and soaking in Canada in the terminal.

In Detroit no matter when you arrive for a flight you just walk up to the counter and you check in. At KLM you walk up and no one's there and they don't arrive for another hour for work. Canada was starting to seem really odd to me.

While waiting for the check-in counter to open, I cleared out my purse. I grabbed the envelope my first ticket had been in and thought, "I don't need this! I'm here and I'm going to Amsterdam!" So I threw it away.

What I forgot is that on the back of that envelope was my luggage claim ticket. This is important because for the next 4.5 hours, Canada made me travel to all three terminals several times each to try and find the missing luggage claim number.

Oh Canada how I grew to hate you in those 4.5 hours. You might say, 'But Melissa, you were the asshole who threw away your luggage claim number. Not Canada."

Or maybe you'll say, "But Melissa, Canada didn't send you on a wild goose chase, very specific people did."

I wasn't angry with Canada for the first two hours of the wild goose chase. I wasn't angry in hour three, I was just angry at myself for being so stupid. In fact I wasn't even that angry until the last half hour of the ordeal. At that point I wanted to choke and punch Canada.

I waited in, I am not exaggerating, 18 different lines in 4.5 hours. I waited in lines for shuttles to different terminals. I waited in lines which were wrong lines but I didn't know. I was told I needed to go to terminal 3. At terminal 3, they said go to terminal 2. At terminal 2 they couldn't believe terminal 3 would tell me to go to 2, you have to go to terminal 3. No, they couldn't just call that desk and ask them for the number for me. I guess the phones in Canada are different, in that they don't connect to each other.

Each time I explained my predicament Canada acted like it didn't speak English and had no idea what the hell I was talking about.

"I threw away my luggage claim ticket accidentally. I need the claim number so KLM will be able to track my luggage."

Canada? Why does that confuse you?

The precise moment I wanted to murder Canada came at the United counter, in hour 4 of this ordeal. You see I'd taken an Air Canada flight but duh! It originated in Detroit and United runs those flights so obviously that's where I needed to go all along. Okay fine Canada, these are the types of things you may have mentioned the first time I was at terminal 2 or maybe when I was at the first, second or fifth Air Canada desk. But okay, you're Canada maybe I don't know how you work.

I wait in line for another 17 minutes and finally get my turn. I explain my situation to a snarling man with fangs and excessive facial hair (he was actually a fairly well groomed gay man) and I hadn't even started crying yet, though the panic was starting to rise in my throat.

He looked confused and said, "Oh no, I can't print that number for you. No. No I can't do it." (I think he may have said 'No' four more times just to be sure I heard how serious he was about not helping me. No.)

I have never wanted to bite a human being before. I've wanted to spank someone, I've wanted to choke someone. I've wanted to slap someone across the face. I control those urges of course, but never before have I wanted to actually put my teeth on another person's flesh.

I wanted to bite that man. I wanted to bite him right through his bones and when he asked me to stop I wanted to say, "Oh no. No nononononono I can't do that for you! No. No. No."

I started to cry at that point because when I asked him where I needed to go to get the number he pointed to another Air Canada line which was winding around and would take me at least another 30 minutes to get through.

At that point I decided to speak to someone at the first class desk even though I was clearly not a first class passenger, because first class passengers have nothing to cry about. They don't even need luggage claim tickets, they get a midget who carries their luggage gingerly from plane to plane.

I told her my story and she was mostly kind but also annoyed and she made some calls and looked some things up and then, would you like to know what she did?

She stood up, walked back over to the snarling fanged gay man and GOT THE GOD DAMNED NUMBER FROM HIM. Let that soak in for a minute, okay?

So after 4.5 hours I have the stupid number and am checked into my flight. I get through security and decide to buy a magazine to read while I wait for my flight. But it got better because then Canada stole my money.

I didn't think I had exact change when she gave me the total so I handed over a ten. She reminded me that I'd get back Canadian money. I said, "Oh, okay." and looked at my wallet a little closer. Surprise! There was the exact change I needed. So I said .5 seconds after she reminded me about the change issue, "Wait, I have the exact change."

Keep in mind she's handed nothing to me and hasn't even put my ten in her register yet.

She then turned into a snarling medusa-like creature with snakes all over her head and said, "Sorry. In Canada we steal your money too," and refused to give me back my money. So I wouldn't be stuck with a bunch of Canadian money I'd have to pay to have transferred back to US funds.

Fine. Thank you Canada. It's now 5pm and I have so far had a Luna bar to eat all day. I go find a place to have a very unsatisfying burger and a mildly satisfying beer. I open my laptop thinking at least I can now check my email, thinking I'll pay whatever it costs to connect to the internet in Canada. I don't care.

But Canada, it was then that you pushed just one step too far. There is no wireless internet access at your airport and that is unforgiveable.

Canada, I know you didn't do all this to me, I know. It's just that I always thought it was national law that everyone in Canada be as nice as this Canadian? I feel disillusioned.

I'm sure in time I'll be able to move on. I'm sure I'll once again remember all the things I love about Canada. But right now, I still kind of want to bite you.

Hard.

When I arrived in Amsterdam I kissed Alice on the lips and said, "I'm so happy you aren't Canadian."

Updated to add: Hey hey hey....I don't really hate Canada (but I do hate Pearson Airport) and I don't want my comments to turn into a serious Canada bash-fest. So tread lightly guys.

Request:

Thank you all for signing up for a typekey account. I've turned off comment moderation because Logan was a little overwhelmed with the task of approval. I'm leaving Typekey enabled because I think it's a  worthwhile tool.

The only downside I've seen is that sometimes people don't fill out their profile and when you don't I can't tell anything about you from your profile page like, for example, your website address.

This is one of the best ways to get traffic to your site if you're a newish blogger: you leave a comment at someone's site, someone reads your comment and likes it and so they click through to your site. I found at least four of my favorite reads this way.

Plus, I like to read new sites and with Flogging Baby it's kind of my job to read all the parenting blogs my eyes can handle and then a few more. If you can just put at least your website address on your profile I think we'll all benefit greatly.

(Annoying aside: why doesn't my website show up on my own Typekey account? I have a Typepad account but the only options are adding some of my Typelists. What I'd do, what I did actually, is add my web site to the 'one line bio' area of the page.)

We'd also benefit if I could, I don't know, write something here. I'm on it.

Credit card companies can kiss my ass

Let's see this application is pieced together with scotch tape. Hey great! Here's $5,000!

Grrrrrrrr................

You could say, mission accomplished. If you were stupid.

The last time I mentioned Logan's car was May of 2004. Back then he was sick of that stupid car, but it still ran. With that stupid machine still running it was impossible to justify purchasing a new vehicle when the old one was running.

But I have to tell you: Logan's soul was chewed up and spit out by the Escort. Old Blue Soul Chewer Upper we called it. No we didn't, but Chrissy did.

I didn't have to drive the Escort very often but when I did I didn't complain here because my complaints were pretty annoying considering the fact that my husband had to drive that car to work everyday and I only had to drive it .25 miles total on the days I was forced to drive it.

I'd just drive Maddie to school, but only if forced by 20 or below weather. Even then it was humiliating to pull around the circle drive and watch as the other parents ducked and covered as the car let out a horrifying death screetch. It was like death in a car really.

Still you have to hand it to us and our new fiscally responsible selves, we held out for another 18 months before replacing it.

So Logan has a new car. It's as boring as the old one but it doesn't leak in the rain and has air conditioning in the summer and doesn't require a garbage bag on the driver's side seat to protect you from the soaking.

He got a boring car to tide him over until my boring car is paid off and at that point my loving and also hot spouse deserves a car he loves. He works hard and he deserves a car he loves to drive. We just can't afford a car he loves to drive while we're paying off the other car we don't love.

But honest to God a car payment twice as much as the one we've just taken on would be worth not hearing my husband enter the house swearing every night. With the new car he no longer walks in, slamming the door and muttering horrible curses under his breath, because have you driven home with water dripping on your face? It makes you slightly crabby.

Now he drives home happy and walks in the door ready to do it. I'd like to talk about how much he likes to do it but Logan's family is still policing this site so that would make them uncomfortable. We would Not. Want. That. No! We wouldn't! Stop it internet! The hot animal sex we have inside a loving and committed relationship is none of my in laws business!

 

Though the prior 328 words wouldn't lead you to believe this, the real purpose of this post is to tell you that my work at Flogging Baby is paying off. When I started writing for them last what? July? My goal was to get Logan a car.

Guess what? We're air brushing Jason Calacanis on the hood of Logan's new car. Or maybe Henry Copeland it's hard to say, I guess we'll see who pays the bills this month.

The Escort went away while I was in Amsterdam. I thought I'd feel sad I couldn't say good bye. I really didn't. I've said good bye to the Escort in so many words everytime it humiliated me in public. It was a good car and it lasted more than most but still, the thing about the 'scort: It really never, ever, even though we said it did, had a Hemi.

Understanding is nice, but boobs are better.

Last night as we watched the Oscars, I showed Logan a post I'd written last week about his awesome handling of the flu while I was in Amsterdam. He handled it with so much more grace under pressure than I ever would have, but then he's a robot.

Some of the comments on that post seemed to dismiss the great job he did because he's the dad. Of course he could handle it, he doesn't have to do it all the time. Never mind that he did all this cleaning of vomit and renting of steam cleaners in addition to working from 6:30am until 5:30pm each night.

He found some of the sentiments insulting and began a bit of a tirade about how father's aren't just walking paychecks and for a dad to be involved in their child's life is not just a plus anymore it's a given and he wants to be there. At the same time, he has all the same pressures of being a provider (and in large part the sole provider).

Then he said, in that cute "I know every single keyboard short cut in the entire Adobe Creative Suite but what is this Interweb?" way he does sometimes, "Why aren't there Dad blogs?"

Ha ha! I said!

I quickly listed off a bunch, many which have talked recently about the issues he brought up (like Dutch did at BloggingBaby). Like Jon, who's changed his entire life around to be more involved at home. And people like Metrodad and Daddytypes and Laid-Off Dad (who, by the way, can also make cool birthday cakes. Logan's going to have a fit when he sees the birthday cake he concocted...Max's birthday is coming you know). Men who write about the experience of being a father, not just a big dope who comes home each night and sits on the sofa until he gets up to do the whole thing over the next day.

We went to bed and he settled in to do some reading of the sites I'd listed, I thought to myself, "How nice, perhaps he'll get a greater understanding of what I've gained by reading and writing on the internet."

His first stop was The Blogfathers, where his eye was, not surprisingly, immediately drawn to this post about the Boob Bounce-O-Meter (depending on where you work, this is NSFW). Guess where he ended up? Mesmerized.

Kinship and understanding are no match for boobs.

Elsewhere:

Oh no, not the penguins! They've gotten to the penguins too?

Read Dolores' comment; these damn gay penguins keep forcing their homosexuality down our throats.

This is how I entertain myself.

===========================================

Update:

The gay penguins are taking over.

I can give birth but I can't find my way to the bathroom.

I've never been very good at writing about my trips. It's very busy while you're there, trying to absorb as much as possible. Then so much happens, it's hard to remember it all once you're able to sit down.

Breakfast was in fact amazing and when Alice describes what she drank and how drunk she felt afterward I'm slapped in the face with my incredible tolerance. Alice describes herself as drunk and yet I felt quite lucid. In fact I drank more last night just having pizza with my friends. Eeks.

We saw all the sights and they were amazing. Thank you so much to everyone who sent tips. Alice's dad was great about keeping a running tally of the places people referred us to and checking them off the list as we saw them.

A friend had told me that the Van Gogh Museum would "change your life". I worried as we waited in line to enter. How would my life change? Would I return home to find my husband and children gone? Would I assume the identity of a meth addict in South Dakota? You just couldn't know.

But now that I'm home, life looks kind of the same. Except I miss Amsterdam.

We went to the Anne Frank house, Alice's dad opted out (he didn't want us to see him cry is my guess) and cry I did. Alice was afraid to cry in front of me and I really didn't want to be so typical so I tried to control the sobs. When we left in the morning the doorman (yes! we had a doorman!) asked jovially where we were going. When we told him the Anne Frank house he started to say, "Have a wonderful time," but quickly changed his tone to a more solemn one.

Which it's vacation so why put yourself through that? But I needed to see it.

I think the best times I had in Amsterdam were the times I walked around alone. When we're at a restaurant I make Logan find the bathrooms for me and then, before I'll go, I want a detailed map to help me find the precise location of the women's room.

I also live in a small-ish town and I don't use public transportation and my city center is about 10 blocks total. I'm 32 but I often feel like a child. Five years ago I would never have believed I'd fly across the country by myself, rent a car and find my way around San Francisco and it's suburbs all on my own. I don't even like to find the bathroom at a restaurant by myself.

Five years ago I could never have believed I would fly across the Atlantic by myself and then navigate my way around a foreign city all by myself. Hopping on and off trams and walking along city blocks with names I couldn't pronounce. This may not seem like a big deal to a whole lot of people, my husband included. But I have to admit the confidence I've gained from exploring and traveling independently has changed who I am I think.

One afternoon I decided to find a shop I'd read about, but I misread my map (which is typical) and ended up on the longest walk of my life. I kept myself calm mainly thinking eventually I'd have to run into something I recognized, it's not that big a city. If I came across maidens in wooden shoes, I'd realize I'd gone too far.

The only problem is, if you're going the wrong direction it's not as if the city just drops off. If you walk long enough you end up in the suburbs or Belgium. Or at the freeway, which somehow while nestled in the city center, I'd forgotten the are freeways in Europe. When I walked up to the freeway I began to panic. My map was small and didn't cover much outside the center of Amsterdam.

I walked for over an hour and saw so many small crooked streets and little bridges and since I was beginning to panic I didn't take enough pictures. I never cried or totally freaked out, I just kept walking and trying to take in as much of the city as I could. I think sometimes when you're lost you see the most stuff. People getting their cars repaired at the mechanic, contractors pulling plywood sheets up to the top floor of a canal house with pulleys, women pushing children on swings in the park, baby swans in a canal.

Finally, as 6 o'clock approached and Alice and her dad would begin to worry about where I was, I decided to ask someone how to get back to where I belonged. I stopped the first mother with children I came across, which is amusing because that's what I tell Maddie and Max to do if they get lost, find a mommy with her kids. I was only a block from the hotel at that point.

The next day I decided to find the Waterlooplein flea market and got there very easily on two trams. However on the way back I took the tram going in the wrong direction. At first this seemed like a bad thing but I decided to just stay on since the trams just circle around the city, eventually I'd see something I recognized. (Which seems to be my kiss of death as evidenced from my 50 mile walk just the day before.)

The trams do loop around but they go much further than you'd expect. We'd joked that if you saw cattle grazing you may have gone too far out of the city. When I saw a girl riding a horse, I decided I'd been on the tram going the wrong direction long enough and got off.

The nice thing was, it was our last night in the city and there was still so much we hadn't been able to pack in. So on my ride at least I got to see the amazing buildings of the Artis Zoo and some beautiful buildings around Oosterpark. And I still made it back to the hotel in time to meet up for dinner.

After all that getting lost, I feel like I could find my way around Amsterdam incredibly easy. It's like I needed three days to get my bearings, and now I wish I were still there.

I hope to go back with Logan sooner rather than later so he can show me where the bathrooms are.

Since I am barely functioning...go here.

I did an interview for Doryn's Dish, you can read it here.

I'm currently walking around wondering why everyone says their a's so nasally and flat around here. And why there are no bikes to threaten my life. And why there's no tram I can hop on to take Maddie to school.

I'm very confused by this place they call Michigan.