Keep your shoes on.

And the party continues...

Sunday night saw me working late, catching a ride to Schijndel to meet up with the group at the bar, and discovering that my ride home had already left because he was tired. (By that time he'd been there for 10 hours, so you can hardly blame him. I can, though, because I was stranded.)

Within minutes, a get-Amanda-home task force had formed.

Option #1: riding home after another three hours on the back of a bike belonging to a German I'd just met. Perfect, except for the extra three hours part. After you realize you have no way home, you just want to go home. Besides, everyone was starting to give up on the night so as to be ready for the next day.

Option #2: get a taxi. Definitely not. They're enormously expensive for one poor passenger.

Option #3: walk. The task force didn't come up with that. I did. Don't freak out. I didn't do it.

It was decided that I would share a taxi with a couple of other people heading in my general direction, which would make it slightly less expensive. However, by the time we made our way through the crowd and got our coats, the taxi had given up on us. So, I was invited to stay at a friend's house there in Schijndel, which I gladly did. I woke up freezing and missing the button on my costume, but this girl's not complaining.

Carnaval!

Last night marked the beginning of Carnaval, a four-day drunken extravaganza of general craziness, as best I understand. It's not celebrated everywhere, but in this part of the country, it's a big deal. Big deal. Everyone dresses up in costumes, the towns all change their names, flags are hanging from every building, the kids have the entire week off school, most businesses are closed.

Today everyone will be heading to the bar at about noon and will stay until the bar closes at 3:00 a.m. Tomorrow: repeat. Tuesday: ditto.

I SPIT IT OUT.

Dutch Word of the Day: snoep.

I was wandering through a store, looking for, you know, whatever, and I came across a candy aisle. You people know me. I'm a big fan of snoep. And I thought, yes, I will buy some candy. Yes, I will.

I had a lot of fun, choosing from all these things I had never seen before, putting them in my little plastic bag, excited that many of them looked as though they might taste like licorice. Candy's candy. There's sugar involved. You can't go wrong.

Wrong.

I got home. I tried some of the candy. I couldn't believe it. Horror! Horror! It tasted...bad! How could this be candy? Who could enjoy this?

Then I did something I'm pretty sure I've never done in my life. I spit the candy out of my mouth.

I sorted out all the offensive pieces and put them in a little pile on my dresser. How do you deal with a situation like this? How do you handle bad candy? There's no precedent. I didn't even know this kind of thing could happen.

I did something else I'm pretty sure I've never done. I threw the candy away.

Seems sinful, I know. But you should have been there. You'd have done the same thing.

Three more songs and I'll have to start my own band.

Great news. A newfound friend has a guitar she's going to let me borrow for the entire year! I'll be able to keep improving my rock star skills!

Yesterday I biked to Schijndel and happened upon a street market, which I love. So much stuff, everywhere, including a lot of belts that I browsed seriously because they have great practical application in my life, but I didn't buy. I'm picky. Especially about accessorizing. Especially about belts. I usually don't bother, so if I'm going to bother, it's going to be with something I really like, whether my pants are falling down or not.

I don't care if it's a boy or a girl, as long as it has only one leg and can't talk.

Okay, that's harsh. And not really how I feel.

Not really.

Yesterday there was no school, and I was here by myself. Things went pretty well, considering I had four kids for 10 hours. They were helpful! They ate their food over their plates! They washed their hands! It was a good day.

We did some painting. Give me a second while I put that on the list of things I'll try to avoid doing again.

Dutch Word of the Day: maandag. Monday.

Last night was another on the town. Some observations:

1. Boots. They're everywhere. Any girl worth her salt wears boots. And I LOVE boots. I should fit right in, except that mine are on the other side of the Atlantic. The urge to buy another pair of boots is strong. Must...fight....

2. No one carries a purse. I saw one purse.

3. Coats are checked. Thank goodness. Saves the debate about whether or not to wear one.

4. There's a lot of familiar music played at a very high volume that left my ears ringing as I fell asleep at 3:00 a.m.

The red, white, and pink.

As yesterday was Valentine's Day, I gifted the two fine gentlemen in my life with Snoopy stuffed toys, each carrying little stuffed balloons and an envelope. Adorable. They seemed pretty pleased, and the promise of a "Valentine's Surprise" got them to stay on task with bathtime and toothbrushing. Win-win.

I was on my own last night with the kids. I got them in bed and started the ironing. I told Pete a few times to stop playing with his toys. Then I heard Carl crying. At first I thought he was just talking to himself, but no, it was definitely crying.

I went in. "Carl, what's the matter?"

He wouldn't tell me. He kept calling for Mama. I told him that I knew I wasn't Mama, but that she wasn't here right now and I could help him if he would just tell me what was wrong. Nope, wasn't going to happen.

I went back to ironing, and he kept calling for her.

Mama got home about an hour later. His calls had become less frequent, but he was definitely still awake. I told Carien that she was wanted in Carl's room.

Ten minutes later she emerged, a half-smile on her face. "Is he okay?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said. "He told me he doesn't like the dog. I explained to him that it was really nice of Amanda to bring you a present on Valentine's Day. He said he knows but it doesn't matter.

"The dog is carrying a pink envelope."

It's almost like life.

My health and time constraints allowed me, at last, to join the large group of people my age who head to the bar on Friday and Saturday nights. After being overwhelmed by the sheer number of names I can't spell and therefore can't really remember, I realized that I can probably get by until I hear them used again and again, and we had a good time.

We were going to go to a place in a nearby town, a five-minute drive, but we ended up taking a 45-minute drive (which is a really long way in the Netherlands) to a bar most of them had never been to. It was a fun place. How do you describe a bar? Like home. Bigger, in this case. Drinks cost about the same, but they're about 1/4 the size of the ones at the Pub.

I got home at 4:00 a.m., which is definitely six hours later than I've gone to bed since my sleeping schedule overcame the jet lag. But I'll recover.

The Dutch Word of the Day is not repeatable.

We will fight this battle with our wit and these sharp things.

Since my arrival, Kate has been the easy one. Though not even two years old, she dresses herself with ease and lies quietly as I change her diaper. No troubles.

That ended about five days ago. It started after a diaper change. I held out her pants for her to climb in, and she said, "Nee" and took them from me. She sat down and proceeded to put them on herself. This is fine. As long as there's time, it's good to encourage her to do things on her own. We had time.

But then she took her legs out. Then she put one in, then sat awhile. When I tried to help her, she said, "Nee" and took her leg out again. I tried to force the pants on, and she started kicking. (Despite my obvious advantages of size and strength, it is remarkably difficult to put clothes on a child who doesn't want to wear them.)

Then her mother came in. Apparently 20 minutes is a long time in which to change a diaper. She picked Kate up, put her pants on, and we were out of there in, oh, 10 seconds. Kate didn't offer so much as an alien-sounding noise in retaliation.

I had just been humiliated by a toddler.

This fight continued at naptime. She kept squirming and kicking out of her little sleep sack. She kept crying. She kept screaming, "Papa!" as if I were trying to murder her. All this from the girl who usually takes naps joyously.

Simply add screaming and kicking to every task we had to complete, and you have a pretty good idea of what my days with Kate have been like.

So, two days ago, I used my size and strength to overpower the little tyke. She still cried, but she was wearing a sweater. Yesterday, no crying whatsoever. I think I might have made some progress.

Keep peddling, we're almost there.

My boredom and curiosity got the better of me today, and I ventured away from my warm home to the very nearby town of Schijndel (SKINE-dell), which is closer than 's-Hertogenbosch (zer-TOE-gen-boss) but doesn't have quite the shopping. I have visited both cities briefly as a passenger in a car, but as this was my first bicycle tour, I sacrificed purchasing opportunities figuring I was less likely to get lost in the smaller of the towns.

With the exception of groceries, stories don't open until 1:00 on Monday, if they're open at all, so I did feel that bad about spending good 15 minutes deciding whether I wanted to be classy or warm. After deciding on warm I headed out, scarf and all. The ride was even shorter than I expected. Schijndel is only a couple of miles away, but that's pretty much farther than I've ever ridden a bike in my life. I again was grateful for the flatness that is the Netherlands.

Most of the stores are on one little street, so I locked up my bike and starting walking. It didn't really take long. I found a pair of great pants for five euros, but in the end was too lazy to try them on. Shopping in the winter is never the best of experiences. I ended up just getting some kleenex to help me deal with the cold I'm still battling and some toothpaste, which comes in much smaller containers here. I'm glad I made the switch to Colgate a few months ago, because there was no Crest to be found, and I'm not quite ready for the world of pastes not approved by the ADA.

Dutch Word of the Day: fiets. Bicycle.

Whining and dining.

Mealtimes are an adventure of a different sort. No one wants to drink their milk, everyone wants to play with a toy of some sort instead of eating. There is usually at least one spill and one wide-open mouth full of partially chewed-up food.

The Dutch, and Europeans in general, if I remember correctly from my previous travels, consume a lot of bread. I haven't eaten this much bread in the last five years.

The hardest part for me is keeping my elbows on the table. In the Netherlands, it is polite to keep fork in one hand, knife in the other, both hands in sight. It is incredibly rude to rest one hand on your lap, as is polite in the States and as is ingrained into my muscle memory. They didn't tell me why this is so inconsiderate, but at that moment I remembered reading something about that years ago. I'll let you look it up.

It's not the end of the world, particularly here at home, but every now and then Rick will remind the boys to keep their hands up and I have to nonchalantly reach for my water with my left hand as if it had been on the table all along.

I have a Dutch Word of the Day for you, but, not surprisingly, I don't know how to spell it. I can say it, though, which is also rare.

Today, despite the cold, I went on a bike ride. The biggest struggle this time was looking around at everything without running into parked cars and street signs. I located some important places, like the post office, the bus stop, an ATM, and the bakery, where I can find all the bread I'd ever want.