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.