Dear Sarajevo: I Love You.
Published August 30, 2010 | My son is inconsolable to be leaving his Bosnian* land. His favorite kitten has been getting dropped off at our doorstep by it’s mother every morning for play dates and chickens have been laying eggs for his breakfast…for the kids, this place is heaven.
Our driver shows up in a luxurious van to take us to Sarajevo, but he’s more than a driver – he’s also Bosnia’s best kept secret: his knowledge of the area is unprecedented. We get a running commentary of the area accompanied by beautiful folk music playing in the background.
His generosity is touching – he offers to make us a copy of the CD and give us a tour of Sarajevo the next day at no cost, simply because he loves his city and enjoys sharing it with people.
Sarajevo is a gorgeous, vibrant city. It’s nestled in a valley surrounded by mountains and hosted the Olympics in 1984, just a few years before war broke out. We’re staying with my husband’s aunt, who lives on a mountainside. Another aunt (her sister) lived on an opposing mountain and for the duration of the war, these sisters never saw each other, even when the husband of one aunt died.
Much of the city has been rebuilt, but there is still work to be done. I get only a small glimpse of the devastation and it is heartbreaking. It’s not only random bullet holes that I see – there are countless abandoned houses, gutted by grenades and mortar fire. Some people have tried to fill in the holes, but you can still see the scars.
The city has a disproportionate number of cemeteries, each one with a sea of headstones. One cemetery is particularly poignant because most of the people had to be buried in the dead of night, to avoid sniper fire. There are numerous lookout points offering outstanding views of the city, but I’m told these were also military posts.
What makes this particularly maddening is that, according to people we spoke with, most are now living much as they were before: aside from going to a church or mosque, most of the people work and play together as they did prior to the war. It all seems so pointless and unnecessary, but I suppose that applies to many wars.
It would all be too much if not for the beauty that remains, not just in the land but also the people. My husband’s family is amazing, with cousins and neighbors coming to see us (at one point, I’m ushered to the house of a woman who speaks no English, but then her daughter informs me that I’ve been invited for coffee).
The locat
ion is unbelievable: they have apple and plum trees along with a few cows and pigs. They make their own cheese (uh oh), bread (oh dear) and hooch (I’m screwed). Watermelons as big as my daughter’s bike back home are full of seeds and cost pennies to buy – food here is grown in people’s backyards, and the taste reminds me of my childhood.
We have a balcony off of our bedroom and the view is breathtaking. Bosnia, to my surprise, has pulled neck and neck with Novi Sad as my new favorite place.
* A quick note about geography (since I wasn’t sure myself and it seems to change every few years): Serbia, Bosnia & Herzegovina, Slovenia, Croatia, Montenegro & Macedonia were all part of Yugoslavia. After the war, they all became their own countries (and since then, Kosovo has also claimed independence). Our trip includes Serbia (Belgrade, Subotica & Novi Sad), Bosnia (my son’s land in a rural area and Sarajevo) and Croatia (Dubrovnik, on the Adriatic Sea).
A reminder of the war on our way to Sarajevo.
One of countless cemetaries. Notice the bullet holes in the railing...
This kind of devastation isn't everywhere in Sarajevo, but when it's there, it really stands out.
So many bullets...
Apparently people in homes being attacked would simply move to another part of the house/apartment, but they still went to work, buy food, etc.
Life goes on around the reminders that war sucks.
This looked like WWII to me...
The cemetery where people buried the dead at night to avoid snipers.
And now, for some happiness - our aunt's house on the mountainside.
Their backyard. No...seriously.
Plum tree!
The view from our balcony.
7 CommentsHow To Get A Bee Phobia Without Really Trying.
Published August 28, 2010 | This part of Bosnia, very remote and on the border of Croatia which saw so much fighting during the war, the air feels different. Everything is still, yet I don’t find it peaceful. There’s a sadness about this place that I can’t pinpoint.
From the front door, you can see the trees that were the front line of Serbs, Muslims and Croats shooting each other. So much blood has been shed in this area and I think the energy of the land has been altered. I’m sure much of it is due to the stories I’m hearing (via my translating husband). Everyone here has a story and they all want to be heard.
The closest neighbor is a woman who lives alone on her farm with a son nearby to help her. She has the remnants of her original house along with a barn and newer house. The newer house has bullet holes scattered along one outer wall.
During the war, she and her husband were the front line, and fed/housed soldiers while dodging bullets and mortars. Her son takes us on a tour of the trench that separated the forces – less than the width of my son’s soccer pitch – and tells us of still finding bullet casings in his cornstalks.
In the evening, a cousin and her husband come by for coffee and my father-in-law disappears with the kids. I realize they’re at the bee hives and go to collect them: although the bees are supposedly “sleeping”, they’re still bees.
I tell them to head back to the house and we back away as my father-in-law lets bees crawl on his hand. I feel a hard pinch on my thigh and realize I’ve been stung. At the same moment, I hear buzzing near my ears. Nope, make that in my ears. I have bees swarming my hair. If you know about my thick hair, you can imagine the phobia I have about animals like bats or, um, BEES, getting stuck in there.
I go to my 3-year-old daughter just as she reaches for her back and falls to the ground, screaming like she’s been shot. I grab her and my son, running to the house and smacking my own head, which has just been stung.
The buzzing around my head is relentless, even as we reach my husband. I run upstairs, hysterical, smacking my own head like a psychopath, followed by my husband and mother-in-law.
The buzzing finally stops and I run my fingers through my hair. I feel a clump and yelp, jumping back and shaking like a leaf. My mother-in-law calmly has me sit down to investigate. She mutters a Serbian swear and picks something out, throwing it to the ground before stomping it with her shoe.
A bee was still alive. In my hair.
I do some minor hyperventilating before I hear my husband telling me to calm the F down because I’m freaking out our daughter. My son, on the other hand, is unharmed and thinks it’s the coolest thing ever.
We get the stingers out, apply a gel kept on hand for just such occasions (WTF?) and I spend the rest of the night watching Curb Your Enthusiasm on the Mac in an attempt to drown out the buzzing in my head.
I dream of creatures living in the corn, coming out to steal my kids, and wake up in a sweat. Coyotes are howling in the corn, which does not help me fall back asleep easily.
Farming tools.
The neighbor's original house.
Bullet holes in the neighbor's 'new' house.
Haystacks! They wrap the straw around a pole, like cotton candy.
The 'road' to my son's land.
I was standing where the Serb forces were lined up and across the grass was the location of the Muslims/Croatians. My son's land was a 2-minute walk behind me.
6 CommentsBosnia: The Land That Time Forgot, But War Did Not.
Published August 27, 2010 | Note: I’m a bit behind on blogs, so this actually occurred a few days ago; however I wrote it in my journal as it happened.
The rooster just woke me up. My head and leg are still tender from the bee stings. My eyes are itchy and puffy – swollen shut from allergies to the farm cats my kids have adopted, but also from a fair bit of crying. I am in Bosnia.
The drive from Novi Sad to Bosnia is like a tour through Tuscany: vineyards and red-tiled roofs dotting the lush hillside. We’re cramped into a tiny taxi and combined with the winding road, I feel a bit woozy.
In one hour, we cross the Serbian border into Croatia, then into Bosnia. Luckily, we don’t have a long wait (trucks have been known to sit in line for days).
My father-in-law’s land has been in the family for over 200 years and my 7-year-old son has already inherited a small parcel. It’s very much off the beaten path; the directions include such gems as, “Turn left after the blue house with three haystacks in front of it.” It also doesn’t help that towns have different names depending on which side of the border you’re on.
We pass a small hamlet in Croatia and our driver informs us that this area, right before Bosnia, was the scene of intense fighting during the Bosnian War of the early 1990′s. I’ve obviously heard about this war and my husband even fought in it briefly before leaving for Hungary with little more than the clothes on his back.
But that’s just stuff that I know. What I see is gut-wrenching: in this tiny village is a church that wouldn’t seat 40 people, but it’s dwarfed by a mass of gravestones. All of the markers are new, most with dates ending in 1993-95. This place is like the memorial for a battlefield.
I think that being a mother makes it hit home even more for me: I imagine my husband being taken in the night by masked men, like his uncle was, and told to fight or be shot in front of his young family.
I also think of my husband, only 19-years-old when the war broke out near the end of his mandatory military service. His base was near this area (we’re going there tomorrow) and although I’ve seen pictures of him looking so young and scared, being here makes it much more real.
It’s so easy to stay cocooned in Canada, where we can turn the channel easily when the images become uncomfortable. For the next few days, I won’t be able to turn the channel, and I find it equally terrifying and fascinating.
The road to our destination takes us through a land where time appears to have stopped: donkeys pull wagons; farm equipment is antiquated; and some of the houses belong in The Princess Bride.
Two vague ruts in the road lead us to my husband’s uncle, a renowned neurosurgeon, standing in front of the property: main house; barn; bee hives; chicken coop; bunk house; and storage building. It’s all surrounded by corn stalks with only a few other houses in view.
As is often the case, we set down our bags and immediately sit down to a meal of pork and potatoes (note: I have yet to see a lettuce leaf of any kind – salad here is coleslaw).
My kids are in heaven – eating freshly laid eggs, picking corn and taking some kittens hostage. I’m in a decidedly different place – my nose is suddenly a sieve and my eyes are itching like crazy. I’m not sure if it’s the flora or fauna, but I’m definitely allergic to something out here (crap…I hope it’s not Bosnia…).
The main house.
The outdoor dining room.
Everyone around here has a pergola to eat under with grape vines growing on top.
The land baron surveying his property with his sister (aka the muscle of the operation) by his side.
The bee hives (more on this later).
The crib my husband used. And his father. And his father's father.
Much more to come – once a better internet connection is found!
You Might Be In Serbia If…
Published August 26, 2010 | I’ve been saying this every day at each new place throughout our trip, but this time I really mean it: Novi Sad is my favorite new city! It’s dynamic and modern but still looks like something out of an 18th century fairy tale.
According to myhusband, who went to highschool here, every day feels like Saturday, and it’s true: Sunday night and Monday morning find th esame crowds of people in the main square across from our hotel. Cobblestone side streets are pedestrian-only and filled with cafe tables that inspire journal writing over an early-morning espresso (or, mad scribbling while your kids scarf down some pastries).
Which brings me to my thesis: You Might Be In Serbia If…
Eating
A family of four can eat like royalty for the price of some happy meals. We stumbled upon the most exclusive restaurant in the city (I never would’ve subjected them to my kids had I known) and had an outstanding meal that included wine, dessert and the kids both devouring their trout and vegetables for only $50.00. I’m constantly amazed at how far our dollar goes here – if gelato were this cheap (and good) at home, I’d need to get my stomach stapled.
This would cost about $7.00. It almost makes you want to buy two.
Dressing
Whether they’re drinking on a patio, taking their kids to the park or going to work, everyone here looks sharp. The women wear form-fitting clothes and high heels to mail a letter. If someone wore pajamas to grab a coffee, like they do on TLC’s What Not To Wear, my husband claims they’d be arrested on the spot. This is not to say that everything is perfect, sartorially-speaking: you might also be in Serbia if, when shopping, you find a large assortment of Speedos in the boys’ department. Apparently, they like to start ‘em young.
Stacy and Clinton (and my husband) do NOT approve...
Smoking
Another thing they start young over here is smoking. I live in a province where smoking is illegal pretty much everywhere. I’m also that person who smells someone light up three blocks away and gets cranky about it, so my husband was concerned with how I’d react to everyone smoking over here. Smokers in restaurants, airports, pharmacies and relatives’ houses surround us, but surprisingly it hasn’t bothered me. I suspect it has something to do with the cheese/bread coma I’ve been in since we arrived.
This is how much second hand smoke I've inhaled since arriving.
Driving
With the exception of my father-in-law, who drives so slowly he might as well go backwards, here is the technique employed by most Serbian drivers on dual-lane highways: position body in order to face passenger; gesture wildly with both hands while talking non-stop; disregard ‘no passing allowed’ signs and swerve onto opposing traffic’s lane to pass a sputtering Yugo; note th eoncoming 18-wheeler that is passing a tour bus; cringe as the two vehicles being passed move towards the shoulder just in time to allow all four vehicles to go by each other at the same, terrifying moment; change your pants.
This did not happen to us...yet.
Loving
A lot of the men here look kind of like…my husband. I’ve started noticing that Serbian men have similar noses – they’re prominent and have the same shape. A cousin tells me that the size of a Serbian fella’s nose reflects his virility, an adage to which my bulbous-beaked husband fully ascribes.
The Don Juan of Serbia (Note: this is NOT a picture of my husband)
8 CommentsToo Lazy To Read? Try This:
Published August 24, 2010 | We’re heading to Bosnia today – to my son’s land – and we’ll be without phone, Internet or TV access (and, presumably my wine-with-lunch streak will end…or intensify), so here are some pictures until I’m back online:
The anti-minivan.
It's bread, in this case FRIED, that is my nemesis on this trip - not cheese, as originally anticipated.
A typical late-night snack: meat; peppers; bread and cheese. Along with an espresso. Wonder why my husband didn't fall asleep until 6 a.m. after enjoying this spread...
This is the auditorium in my husband's HIGH SCHOOL! It looks like an opera house!
A skull monument tucked into a major intersection.
People still live here - behind these doors is a courtyard with flats...like a Serbian Melrose Place...
A typical windowsill - for a plant-killer like myself, this is especially galling...
Travel For Dummies (i.e. moi)
Published August 23, 2010 | I knew there would be certain comforts of home that I would be giving up during our trip (like, um, English) but I’ve since realized even bigger things that I’ll be doing without over the next few weeks:
1) Control
I’m that lady who plans family meals by the week and has Christmas shopping done before Halloween. I’ve been quite happy with my role as family control freak because, let’s face it, sh*t gets done.
On this trip, I’ve had to relinquish control of all matters to just about everyone else: the police station where we registered ourselves upon arrival; my mother-in-law for meals we eat; my kids for when we sleep (Gravol only takes us so far); and, my husband for pretty much everything else.
He now orders for me in restaurants, handles all of our money, and manages our itinerary (which changes hourly). I’m basically responsible for keeping the kids bathed and clothed, and that’s about it. I have to admit, it was difficult to let go at first, but by the time we landed in Belgrade, I was kind of digging it.
I am officially Serbian arm candy.
2) Electronics
This time last year I had a cell phone last seen on Flintstones and a desktop sold during Atari’s heyday. I was not even close to what you would call technologically savvy (I didn’t even get on Facebook until my Grandma did).
In the last six months, I’ve opened Facebook and Twitter accounts, bought an iPhone and Mac, and started a freaking blog. I compulsively check for tweets, likes, messages and comments throughout the day. This drives my husband n.u.t.s.
We’ve brought the Mac with us, but our access to it – and the Internet – is severely curtailed. I’m no longer having Pavlovian responses to pings and dings and rings. I’m definitely more present than I’ve been in weeks. As long as I don’t get too close to an Internet café, I have no problem unplugging from the worldwide everything. This makes my husband s.q.u.e.e. (As much as a 6’3” Serb can do so.)
This is how I first felt without my iPhone.
3) Expectations
Whenever we travel, I make a point of doing copious amounts of research in advance. I’ve even been known to highlight the odd Lonely Planet guidebook.
Because so much of our focus on this trip has been reuniting with my husband’s family and friends, there’s been nothing for me to plan. We may have a vague idea of the day’s activities, but they’re constantly changing as people show up or new options present themselves.
We’ve discovered outstanding restaurants in tucked away corners and a street fair that became the highlight of our day. All of this because I’m just going with the flow and letting things happen to us, rather than trying to make things happen.
Where we ate lunch yesterday...Under the Serbian Sun...
11 CommentsYou Call These Hookers?
Published August 19, 2010 | I won’t have time to blog as regularly during this trip, so I’ll try to pack as much into each post as possible. I hope you enjoy these scenes from Serbia!
Eat Me
We arrive at my in-laws’ flat after 17-hours of travel (it was all very Planes, Trains and Automobiles) and are immediately told to sit and eat. I’m told this will be a recurring theme of the trip and will be heartbroken if it’s any other way.
In one meal I have four different kinds of meat, soup from scratch, fresh bread and potatoes. There’s a salad that everyone ignores and some carrots that are just for show. Then my mother-in-law brings out a cake that wouldn’t look out of place at a wedding reception.
Afterwards, we decide a walk is in order (either that or an angioplasty) and head to the town square, which is dotted with food kiosks – but instead of hot dogs and pretzels, it’s burek (pron. Boor-eck: a Serbian-style pizza filled with cheese) or Langos (pron. Lan-go-sh: a salty, deep-fried bread for which I would sell a kidney).
This morning my husband returns from the newsstand with cherry-filled burek, a bun filled with Nutella and some other bready goodness. Lunch finds us at a restaurant where he has, “the best f’ing pizza ever made by man.” It has prosciutto, gorgonzola, sausage and much more…the little bit that I steal when he isn’t looking tastes excellent.
I may have to get knocked up on this trip just so I can name my kid 'Burek'
Dueling Divas
Saveta (Sav-ay-tah) is the adorable dog belonging to my in-laws. She rules their hearts and home. At least she did before my 3-year-old daughter rolls in like she owns the joint. Now there’s a new queen of hearts and the dog is not happy.
For months we’ve been telling the kids about this dog – we don’t even have a pet goldfish at home – so this surrogate mutt is a highlight of the trip. Saveta lost her mind yapping at us when we arrived and now, 10 hours later, she shows no signs of letting up (especially when my in-laws go near the kids).
My daughter – who befriends all animals, from rodents to rottweilers – remains unimpressed by Saveta’s jealous fits. She simply laughs at the dog, imitates the barking, and chases her around the room on all fours. Saveta is, understandably, on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
The queen showing the princess who's boss (notice baba - grandma - holding the potty seat...she refuses to be anyone's ass butler)
Hot Wheels
In Serbia, like much of Europe, cyclists rule the roads. In fact, the sidewalks are split in half to accommodate the abundance of bicycles and if the walking lane is obstructed, pedestrians will be better off taking their chances on the road, because people on bikes don’t stop for anything.
Two things really stand out for me: over here, nobody on a bike bothers with a helmet; and, you can’t take two steps without a senior (I’m talking serious seniors) whizzing by on a bike.
Speedy Gonzales, serbie-style
Hot (Not) Hookers
The hookers over here are an enigma. At the town square, my husband points out two women who look like office workers (the kind who work in cubicles and are dressed as drab as the décor…I can say that because I used to be one) and tells me they’re looking for customers.
With nary a hot pant or stiletto in sight – never mind interested johns – I hesitate to believe him. He teases me quite often, especially when it comes to Serbian-Canadian matters. A recent example: I asked him to translate to his mother that we were going for a walk. He told her that I said her cooking sucks.
A Final Thought
Europeans don’t use clothing dryers and I love the smell of clothing that’s been hung out to dry. However. Do I really need to see my father-in-law’s ginch hanging on the line? And more importantly, does he really need to see mine?
Y'all don't need to be seeing hookers or underwear, so I bring you the ubiquitous YUGO!
20 CommentsSerbia Or Bust
Published August 18, 2010 | First things first: European women are style personified. And European men are hawt! Also? The flight attendants of Austrian Airlines all look like distant relatives of the Von Trapps. Or ABBA.
Before we even take off from Toronto for Vienna, I get a little taste – make that smell – of what’s to come when an overly ripe dude settles into the seat in front of me. I’ve bought out the dollar store, loaded up with DVDs and am overflowing with various healthy(ish) snacks, but my thorough preparation is for naught – the backpacks are ignored while my 3-year-old has a pillow fight. With her father. It’s going to be a long frigging day…
I’ve brought Stieg Larsson’s The Girl Who Played with Fire to read on the trip. My husband bets me $100 that I won’t get past page 10. That is a best I’m willing to lose, because aside from dealing with the kids, I’m fascinated by my fellow passengers: some are wearing pajamas while others wouldn’t look out of place at a wedding.
One dude (a Beefy McMuscle-type) is reading something called Why Men Love Bitches, and he’s doing it while sitting next to his girlfriend. One poor dad is caring for his two kids, one of whom is that child – the one who freaks out the entire flight. Some jerks are giving him the stink eye. Others nod in sympathy. A few more offer a ‘better you than me, buddy’ glance. I give the greatest gift of all: children’s gravol. You’re welcome, Flight 92.
Flying into the morning, my daughter sleeps a few hours but my son is wired and refuses to miss a second of our European adventure. Until, of course, we begin our descent into Vienna. Then he goes comatose and doesn’t fully wake up until we load onto our second flight of the day. The propeller plane taking us to Belgrade looks like vintage WWII and I assume the pilot will be wearing goggles and a white scarf. Climbing the stairs from the tarmac, I notice the flight attendant giving the loo a once over with a ginormous can of Lysol. This does not bode well.
The flight is only an hour and before we know it, we’re getting our luggage and entering the cacophony of the Nicola Tesla parking lot. It only takes a few seconds for me to see my first Yugo (a putt putt car come to life!) and my father-in-law is there with a lovely driver he hired to haul all of our crap to their town (another two hours sitting – my butt is officially callused).
My seven-year-old sums up my initial thoughts: “It looks like Canada, but with funny looking signs.” (Another one I agreed with: “I sure hope these air bags work.”)
Aside from that, here are some initial impressions: there are beautiful church spires poking up through the forest, which my husband described as the marker of tiny villages (“Like that movie, Chocolat, but with more meat.”); it is no big deal to live, like my inlaws do, in a 200-year-old building with massive doors guarding the interior courtyard and communal garden; there is a tonne of construction going on along the highway, with many machines and only a few men working (and by “working”, I mean gathering around one guy and having what looks like a delightful coffee break); EVERYONE goes walking in the town centre in the late afternoon – this is a café culture and although I don’t even drink the stuff, I’m already a fervent follower.
17 CommentsPack Your Bags, Kids. We’re Going to…Serbia!
Published August 16, 2010 | I am, as the beer commercial goes, Canadian. In fact, I’m a bit of a Canuck cliché: polite to a fault; funny in a self-deprecating way; and overall a bit reserved, if not bland.
My husband, the Serb, is in many ways my opposite: he speaks five languages; spends more time on his hair than I do; and has the kind of temper and ability to hold a grudge that you’d expect from a people still lamenting battles they lost over 600 years ago.
A co-worker best summed up his old-world charm, barely-there accent and impeccable style: he’s European enough to be exotic, but not so foreign that you don’t know what the %^# he’s talking about.
When we were married 10 years ago, my parents were living in Kuwait and his were in Serbia, so we eloped to the Cook Islands (thereby robbing me of My Big Fat Serbian Wedding, but I was on a beach and didn’t really care). Since then, his parents have visited us in Canada but he’s never returned to his native soil.
Tomorrow, we’ll be getting on a plane for a 13-hour journey to his homeland, traipsing around Serbia to reunite with family and friends he hasn’t seen in over 20 years. Our three-week (eep!) adventure will include a family reunion around a communal pig spit near the property my son inherited (he’s the youngest land baron in his class), tending to his grandfather’s beehives and drinking plenty of Rakija (an aperitif that can strip paint off a barn). We will also visit various regions, from Novi Sad to Sarajevo, as well as a beach holiday – aka the real vacation – in Croatia at the end of our trip.
Like many foreign languages, listening to a bunch of Serbs discuss something as benign as the weather leaves you with the impression that someone may get knifed – it’s very fiery, with lots of gestures and raised voices. The only Serbian words I know would get us arrested, so it should be an interesting couple of weeks.
The main thing I have in common with the Serbian people, aside from my husband, is an appreciation (bordering on obsession) of their food. The Serbs I know have never met a piece of cheese, slab of meat or puff of pastry they didn’t love – because of this, and despite the language barrier, I suspect we’ll get along just fine.
I plan to blog regularly about the trip, but if you don’t hear (read?) from me for a few days, never fear…I’m probably in a lactose intolerance-induced coma.
Green vegetables are merely a suggestion...as in, garnish.
18 CommentsSick Men Suck
Published August 13, 2010 | My husband has been fighting a high fever for a two days and I am so over it. Granted, it takes a lot to bring him down, but once there, my fella regresses to a sucky three-year-old clamoring for his mommy. Unfortunately (or not, depending on the day), she lives in Europe, leaving me as the understudy mama in his little drama.
Having kids capable of teaching a class in vomiting has dropped my man’s achy tummy down a few notches on the scale of Things I Give a Crap About and, as a result, he’s not getting the TLC he craves. I know he’s in real pain and I’m not a totally heartless bitch (about this, anyway), it’s just that the rules are different whenever I (or any of my mom friends) get sick. I could cough up a lung and my kids would just step over it to demand an afternoon snack. We don’t get anyone to mommy us because we are the mommies.
As a newlywed, I liked babying him. For example, when I traveled for work, I’d not only leave him prepared meals, I’d also highlight the takeout menus so he’d know what to order. It all sounds very Marion Cunningham, but don’t judge me because the man cleans toilets…
Actually, I think this is the main reason I’m so pissed at his puking: he normally does at least half of the housework; he’s a better parent than me most days (they don’t call him Fun Daddy for nothing); and he’s kind, funny and hot (even after the fever goes away). My husband is a true partner and ideal daddy.
Damn. I think I better go and make some amends. And soup.
Get 'em while they're hot.
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