So my blogging pal Renee at But Why Mommy whose birthday, you may recall, we celebrated here a few months ago is about to adopt a beautiful baby boy named Lion and our mutual friend Issa (who I adore and you should too) thought it would be a great idea to throw her a virtual baby shower.  Seeing as how I’m probably the only guy that’s been invited to this party, I thought my gift should be to both Renee and her husband Scott about how raising a boy is different than raising a boy - and how it’s not.  So, happy adoption Renee and Scott! Lion will be lucky to have you.

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Raising a boy in this day and age is a challenge. On one hand, you want your son to be strong and confident enough that he doesn’t get his butt kicked out on the playground on a regular basis. On the other hand, you want your son to move beyond age-old stereotypes of caveman-like proportions. This means letting your son dress up in his sister’s princess gowns and try on fingernail polish whenever he gets the urge. It also means letting him play with dolls and fire trucks and dolls with fire trucks.

Raising a boy means you will have to answer questions Lots of questions. Some of these questions you will know the answer to and some you will have to make up. This includes questions like “How fast is that race car, Daddy?” or “Why do boys have penises and girls have vaginas?” or “Why do you keep saying, Sssshhhh?!” Questions. Be ready.

Raising a boy means messier meal times and a totally different rule book than the one you started creating for your lovely daughter. Rules that made your daughter cringe in fear will be laughed at by your son.

Raising a boy means really boring outfits. Remember all those incredibly cute outfits you couldn’t help but purchase for your little girl? Yeah, those don’t exist for boys. The biggest thrills you will get shopping for your son is deciding between jeans and corduroy pants.

Raising a boy means longer potty-training battles (”Point that thing down, son. Down! I SAID DOWN!!”). It also means dodging streams of pee shooting toward your face when changing his diapers. It will happen. Let’s hope your reflexes are up to the challenge.

Raising a boy means teaching him how treat the women in his life and the responsibility that holds. It means showering him with love and affection from both dad and mom so he has balance in his life when he goes out into the world. It means teaching him to express his anger with words, not with his fists.

Finally, raising a boy isn’t all that different than raising a girl. Love him and hold him close to your heart every day of your life. In the end, that’s enough.

So I had a bet.

This bet, you may recall, was a six week bet with my friend Tania over at Chicky Chicky Baby to see who could lose the greatest percentage of weight. Forty-two days of starvation and painful exercise. And for approximately 37 of those days, I was kicking Tania’s butt. I was certain I was going to win. I knew that there was no way she could make up the ground that she’d need. After all, she’d only lost 8 pounds in 37 days. How could she possibly lose 3.5 pounds in five days? Not likely. Especially since she was ready to throw in the towel on day 37 because of a “broken toe” and a “head cold.” I had this in the bag.

I forgot one simple thing. The woman is as stubborn as an elderly mule.

So this morning, when I weighed in for the final time, I was greeted with 15.5 pounds of weight loss. I emailed that info to Tania and waited for her reply. I imagined the joy I would have in winning our bet and goading her into showing her spandex-clad self in all its glory.

But then I received her email. 11.5 pounds. A quick calculation determined that I had lost 8.18% of my body weight. She had lost 8.24%. She won. By .06%. I think my reply to her email was something like this…

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.”

So, being the good sport that I am, I went to the local Nike Outlet store and purchased me some spandex. And this evening I took a few photos while I worked out. And I would like it to be known that I could have wimped out and posted me out of focus or curled up in a ball but that’s not how I roll. Also, I wanted to show me in all my spandex glory because that’s the way our good friend Anissa would want it. So here it is. For Tania and for Anissa… Me rocking the spandex.

Earlier today, spurred by the recent discussion on Twitter about blogging for money and bloggers disclosing their income, I got a little fed up at the blogging community.  I was longing for the day when blogging was purely about sharing a passion with whoever wanted to read it.  I was longing for the day when making a simple connection with another blogger who happened to live in another part of the country, or even world, was cause for joy.  I was longing for the time when blogging was simply about creating community and supporting each other in our common crusades.

And then, out of the blue, I heard that a fellow blogger had suffered a stroke.  Anissa is one of the few bloggers that I have met in real life.  We met at BlogHer and her infectious personality and winning smile drew me to her like a moth to a flame.  I have admired her strength as a mother as she chronicled her daughter’s bout with cancer and I have laughed at her zany sense of humor that often borders on obscene.  She’s genuine and real and well-loved.

And I’m not the only one who thinks so.  I follow a little under 1,ooo people on Twitter and it seems almost all of them tonight are sending Anissa prayers and support.  I have seen several references to blog posts regarding Anissa’s condition and I am suddenly reminded that the blogging community is still there for one another.  And today, I want to be there for Anissa.

I ache for her and her family.  I’m sure her husband Peter is struggling with untold emotions.  I’m sure her children are scared for their mother.  I feel helpless being across the country but I know that we can help in some small ways.  Tomorrow, I’m told, the ladies at Aiming Low (Anissa was the creator of this blog) will be setting up a P.O. Box for people to send gift cards to support Anissa.  Right now they are asking for restaurant gift cards, movie and video rental gift cards (for the kids), and even hotel and gas gift cards so Anissa’s family can be supported as they travel to Atlanta.

Please keep Anissa in your thoughts and prayers.  She is a wonderful woman with a family who loves and needs her.  And she has a fellowship of friends who love her and need her too.  If you would like to help, please visit Aiming Low for more details.

A few weeks ago, a fellow Daddy Blogger, Hank from Shotgun Daddy, whom I have known for several years now, approached me about a story he felt warranted attention.  The story was of Jalen, a handsome, bright, athletic young teen who just happens to be battling cancer.  As I read about Jalen’s journey, my heart got caught in my throat and tears welled in my eyes.  I pictured this brave boy battling this awful disease and felt so helpless knowing how scary this must be for him.  You see, Jalen has seen this before.  His 4 year old sister, Breanna, died of a brain tumor when Jalen was nine.  That’s right. Jalen’s parents are now facing another battle with cancer with another of their beautiful children.  I cannot even imagine the emotions that those parents must be feeling.  My heart aches for this family.

As you may know, this month is Cancer Awareness month.  Most of us know someone who’s been afflicted with cancer.  Some have survived.  Others have not.  Cancer sucks.  But it seems most unfair when it’s children who are expected to battle this awful disease.  They deserve more.

So, I am asking you to learn more about Jalen’s story at his family’s blog, Jalen’s Journey.  Send him words of encouragement and let him know that we are all rooting for  him.  You can also send a donation to Jalen’s family via the blog but that’s not the reason I’m writing about this.  I’m writing because 13 year old boys shouldn’t have to worry if they’ll live long enough to drive.  And parents shouldn’t have to go through the terrible fear of losing a child - let alone two.

Cancer sucks.  Let’s beat this thing.  Let’s find a cure for Breanna and Jalen and everyone you and I have known who has been afflicted by this awful disease.  Too many of our babies are dying.

It started out like any other week. Monday morning was the usual struggle to get the kids back into our weekday morning routine. A certain girl didn’t like the socks I picked for her. A certain boy didn’t want to put his shoes on. A certain Daddy was under-caffeinated and rushing to get to work.

Tuesday was more of the same. Nothing very exciting.

Wednesday, however, got interesting. In a brief chat with Tania from Chicky Chicky Baby, we both got into a whining match about how much weight we’ve gained since BlogHer. My memory of the actual conversation is vague but I seem to remember references to thunder thighs and hippos. It also got more interesting when Tania said, “I smell a bet.” So a bet was made. The bet? Whoever loses the most percentage of weight in the next six weeks is the winner. The loser? The loser will have to post a photo of herself on her blog wearing spandex.

My starting weight was 189.5 pounds.  Since the bet was placed, I’ve lost 3.5 pounds. I am determined to win this bet. Here is my game plan:

• Have a net daily caloric intake of 1300 calories.  (I can eat more but the exercise I do has to cancel out the extra calories)
• Exercise. A lot. I’m thinking of doing the thigh master at my desk at work.  Maybe some buttock squeezes whenever I’m walking. Perhaps even some running.
• Taunt Tania with apple cider donuts. Thinking of having a dozen shipped to her every week day.
• Shave my head. Every ounce counts. That hair was on its way out anyways.  If that doesn’t work, shave the rest of the body.
• Lose a limb. How often do I really use my left arm?
• Donate a kidney.  How much does a kidney weigh? A pound?

This better work.  If it doesn’t, I’m going to have to post a photo of a bald-headed, hairless, one-armed, spandex-clad me on this blog.  I’ll miss my readers.

Thursday was a lot of fun.  My body adjusted to me starving myself. And when I say adjusted, I mean my stomach growled all. day. long.  That evening, however, I got to chat with Karl from Secondhand Tryptophan on his internet radio show.  You can listen to the recorded show at his radio show website or you can look up the podcast on iTunes.  We had a nice talk.  I answered the questions that James Lipton always asks on Inside the Actors Studio and chatted about why I think women hold men back from parenting (you know you wanna listen now, right?).  It was fun and I had a good time.

Friday, aside from starving myself, I went to visit our day camp at the Y.  The staff asked me to participate in a banana eating contest with other staff directors in front of the  entire camp.  I happily obliged because I’m a team player and I wanted to support our camp staff.  As I stood with five of my fellow directors in front of the camp, they blindfolded all of us and handed us a banana.  Soon after, they shouted “GO!” and it was on!  I crammed that banana in my mouth.  As I finished it, I could hear the kids cheering and someone handed me another banana.  I started to shove that one in my already full mouth and suddenly, I was declared the winner.  I removed my blindfold, banana still in my mouth, and glanced around.  Every staff member that had been standing next to me was no longer next to me and not one was eating a banana.  It was then I knew I had been had.  The banana eating contest was a contest of one: Me.

Of course, the staff and kids began laughing and I laughed along too.  They got me.  They got me good.  Of course, they won’t be laughing so hard when I don’t sign their timecards next week.

Saturday and Sunday were all about not eating.  It’s harder than it sounds.  Stay tuned for that. Bald, one-armed guys in spandex could be a sight to see.

Dear Renee,

I hear it’s your birthday and some of your friends are getting together to throw you a virtual birthday party. And I know I only just met you at BlogHer and while I’m pretty sure we were once sprawled on the same bed in a hotel room*, I thought you were pretty cool. And I never miss a good party.

So, I volunteered to bring the pinata. But not just any pinata. This pinata was bought for my daughter by her evil Grandmother who wanted to ship it off to our home after a visit last year. See for yourself the pinata in all its glory:

As you can see, it’s a Hello Kitty pinata. It’s pretty. It has a cute little pink shirt and a cute little pink bow and cute little whiskers. Take a moment to bask in it’s cuteness. Perhaps Hello Kitty brings back certain memories for you. An old backpack, a pencil case with a built-in pencil sharpener or little erasers that smell like bubble gum. Or maybe it means nothing to you. That’s the trouble with surprise parties, you do the best you can with what you’ve got.

Anyway, it’s so cute. Just imagine it at your party. Hear the laughter of friends and family drifting into the air. You can smell the barbecue and the feel the warmth of early fall sunshine fall upon your serene face. All is right with the world. It is then that you casually walk over to Hello Kitty, pick up the baseball bat nestled up against the tree and…

BEAT THE LIVING CRAP OUT OF IT!!!! OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN!!! KNOCKING HER FRICKIN’ HEAD INTO A PULP!!! YOU SWING MERCILESSLY AND THAT STUPID PINK BOW COMES LOOSE AND FLOATS INTO THE AIR WHILE YOU CONTINUE TO BEAT THAT DAMN KITTY WELL AFTER THE MOMENT WHEN THE CANDY COMES FLYING OUT!!!! THE KITTY CONTINUES TO SWAY VIOLENTLY AS YOU KNOCK EVERY RECOGNIZABLE PART OF THAT KITTY TO TIMBUKTU!!!

And just like that, you nestle the bat back against the tree and smile knowing that no one at that party, after witnessing your violent assault on Hello Kitty, will EVER even think of messing with you or your family.

Have a Happy Birthday, Renee! You deserve it!

To be clear, the sharing of a bed isn’t nearly as fun as it sounds when half a dozen other people are sprawled around the room as we try and coordinate our party itinerary for the evening.

[Editor's note: Tania from Chicky Chicky Baby and I had a bet.  It was simple. If your Little League team lost, you had to write a guest post singing the praises of the other's baseball team.  She's a Red Sox fan - something I've been trying to convince her isn't in her best interests - especially since it's an AL team and baseball was meant to be played with 9 players, not 10.  But I digress.  She lost the bet.  And THIS is what she sent me.  Half the post is defending her poor decision to make the bet in the first place and the second half is... not exactly what I had in mind.  But whatever.  I know it took the Red Sox like a 1,000 years to be good so I won't blame her for jumping on the band wagon now.  Anyway, here's her LOSER post.]

I am not a fan of the Little League World Series. There’s something about watching a gang of boys on the cusp of true adolescence try so hard to emulate their sports heroes and only to give up 10 runs in the fifth inning that chokes me up. Sure there are winners - if there are losers there must be someone who wins - but watching the losing team try valiantly to hold on to any semblance of fabricated maturity when faced with putting one in the Lost column after months, even years, of hard work… Let’s just say when I see a twelve year old boy dissolve into angry tears while trying to hide his shame with his ball cap, it makes the Mama Bear in me come out. I want to squeeze them and bake them cookies. And maybe wipe away the dirt on their faces with a spit covered tissue. Which is not weird AT ALL.

So when Matthew wanted to make a bet that his Chula Vista Park View Little League team would beat the local boys from Peabody, MA, I had to root for the home team despite my feelings.

(Although, honestly Peabody is not so local compared to where I live in the state. But whatever, it’s a small state. Everyone pretty much knows everyone else.)

(Okay not really.)

(But let’s get this straight right now, Peabody is not pronounced Pee-Body. It’s not a cartoon dog. It’s pronounced Pee-Buh-Dee. Yes, I feel better now. Thanks for asking.)

I couldn’t say no. I knew it was a fool’s bet - in Little League and High School baseball it takes a special group of northern kids to be able to compete at the same level as teams who get to play all year round because they have access to better weather conditions – but I wouldn’t give Matthew the satisfaction of backing down. There’s the whole East Coast/West Coast thing to consider. I’ve got a rep to protect. East Coast represent!

The stakes: Loser would have to say something nice about the winner’s Major League team. I’m a Red Sox fan - Naturally. I mean, isn’t everyone? - and he’s a Padres fan. Probably the only one.  American League vs. National League.  Designated hitter vs. those who secretly wish they had a designated hitter.  I mean, purists.  Whatever.

Long story short, I lost. I mean, Peabody lost. Chula Vista and their 6 foot 2 inch, 215 pound 13 year old pitcher trounced on the poor, sweet and innocent boys of Peabody. It was painful. There were tears. Ugly tears. The boys looked pretty upset, too.

So now I have to write something nice about the Padres.

Um.

Wow, something nice about the Padres? Uh…

Oh, I know! I’ve had a Tony Gwynn rookie card since I was 10 years old. He’s practically the patron saint of the Padres. I can’t believe I held onto it for so long considering all the ones I sacrificed to the spokes of my Pink Huffy tires. It’s in mint condition and it’s worth about sixty bucks at this point… But I think I left it behind with my ex husband and I’m not going back to get it any time soon. And if I continue with this line of thought I may say something nasty so that’s probably not the nice thing Matthew was expecting…. Back to the drawing board.

Something nice, something nice… Hmm…

Petco Park seems great. Beautiful, modern and all that.  I’m jealous…. You can probably get sushi while watching a game! Am I right? Much better than cramped seats and boiled hot dogs and almost a hundred years of baseball legends. Who needs history when you have raw fish wrapped in seaweed! And from what I hear you never have to worry about getting a decent seat - there’s lots of empty ones! So there’s that.

Hey, isn’t your mascot the Chicken??

I loved that guy! I used to watch the Baseball Bunch when I was a kid and that darn Chicken always upstaged Johnny Bench. What skill! What charisma! What… What’s that? He’s not the Padres’ mascot? Well what the hell good is he?? Your mascot is a priest? A Friar? The Swinging Friar? Well, nothing says baseball like a man of the cloth, that’s what I always say. I could also say something about how even God Himself wouldn’t be able to help the Padres but as a lapsed Catholic I’m afraid of the inevitable lightning strike. So, moving on.

(Sorry about the “Hell” thing, God. I’m sure the Chicken counts as one of Your blessed creatures. Don’t hurt me.)

I’ve got it! No really, you’re going to love this one. This is the best thing I can think of about the Padres.

Ahem…

On behalf of Major League Baseball, its fans, players, and associates, we would like to thank the Padres for being a glorified farm team as of late. Because of you other teams, real contenders if you will, have picked up some choice players in the past few years and have gone on to winning seasons. Give yourself a hand, Padres! You’re Triple A but with better salaries! And I’m sure Adrian Gonzalez is there to stay… Until someone else offers him a more lucrative contract.

And if that doesn’t make you feel good about yourself, at least you’re not the Mets.

I jerk my head up suddenly and let out a loud gasp as if surfacing from the depths of the ocean.  I inhale deeply as my heart races and I look around wildly at my surroundings.  It is dark out and as I squint into the night, my eyes adjust and I see the familiar surroundings of my bedroom.  The chaise lounge in the corner, covered in clothing.  The exercise bicycle against the wall, covered with dry cleaning.  My wife, sleeping soundly at my side, just covered.

My heart begins to slow and my breathing becomes more regular as I struggle to think of what it was that so violently awakened me from my slumber.  I close my eyes and it all comes back to me…

I am at Midway Airport, the walls appear Dali-esque as I am joining the death march of travelers wandering towards the baggage claim area.  I am on my phone trying to text a kind, virtual friend to come and pick me up.  We arrange to meet outside and as I am standing on the curb waiting for the chariot to arrive, it begins to rain.  The acidity of the rain burns upon my skin and I am left to find cover.  Before I melt into the concrete, however, a large pumpkin driven by eight, white stallions, appears and I am offered a ride by a pixiemom and her three little pixies.  I am introduced to Amy, Noelle and AnaBanana.  One likes to talk, one likes to sing and the other goes good with yogurt…

Before I know it, a loud, piercing sound penetrates my skull.  This sound is repeated hundreds of times as I grab my head with my hands and try in vain to overcome the pain of the sound… “SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!” I look around to see if anyone else is being traumatized by the sounds but smiles are in abundance and most of the faces I focus on are jumping up and down and I start to feel seasick… “SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!”

The scene shifts again and I am suddenly being herded into a room with music blaring.  There is a mad dash towards one part of the room and I am left to wonder what could possibly be over there that is causing such a commotion.  I can’t quite make it out as women are throwing elbows and those caught on the fringes of the group try to battle their way to the front.  As the crowd begins to disperse I strain to see what could have been so important but all I am left to see are empty cardboard boxes as women, clutching red totes to their bosom scatter in different directions…

Suddenly I find myself in a room with hundreds of people with their faces buried in their phones, typing away furiously about God-knows-what.  There are blow-up dolls, bottles of lube and a naked woman walking proudly through the middle.  I see the Wild Rumpus from Where The Wild Things Are and I even get accosted by a wild woman with a southern twang…

The room shifts again and I find myself in another room full of chocolate.  I am wearing a tiara and I suddenly realize it’s my birthday.  My brother suddenly appears dressed like Big Bird and this makes sense because he is from The Street.  I am acutely aware that he shouldn’t be there but glad he is but I get worried when I am told I have to go to another party that has lots of glitter and a mean bouncer at the door.  I stuff Big Bird in my shirt and we sneak him into the party that, for some reason, makes me think of my Mom and Dad…

I am on the dance floor and shouting out Beastie Boys songs at the top of my lungs.  Someone walks by looking like my girlfriend from 1989 - full of neon and lace.  A unicorn winks at me from across the floor.  A man gives me whiskey that tastes like raspberries.  A dirt-eating man suddenly accosts me and I find my face being pushed into the floor and I wonder, for a brief moment, if this how it feels to die. And I wonder if I’m wearing underwear with holes in it…

I am standing in front of dozens of women. I think I might be naked but I’m too scared to look.  Am I before a firing squad? Why are there two other guys next to me? And what is that woman going to do with that microphone? I am forced to answer questions about my undergarments and I am fighting back tears.  There’s a really good looking guy standing in the back of the room flexing his muscles but all the women seem to love him for his mind.  Accusations are tossed about and women look both angry and confused.  Soon all the women are squeezing pink balls…

I am in another crowded room, with trays of cheese burgers being served by beautiful women.  I am given a bag to wear upon my head and no one thinks this is strange.  Other men, who clearly don’t belong because they are NOT wearing bags on their head try to crash the party.  I am introduced to Ms. Lori and I wonder where Hooper is.  I also wonder if Captain Kangaroo and Mister Rogers are somewhere in the room.  I think I see Mr. Green Jean hitting on a Cheese burger girl in the corner.  Men in suits arrive at the door and tell us we must leave. A woman with a camera pleads for the man to look “MORE PISSED OFF” as I head out the door…

A very Bossy woman tells me I have to go dancing and suddenly someone who tells me she is stalking me, along with my brother and other people with really weird names and accents force me into a cab and we are on our way.  Once there my shoes become scrutinized and pass muster.  I can’t hear anything but the stalker as we make our way inside.  I chat with the stalker until the Bossy lady determines it is time for us to go.  We arrive back where we started and I try to run but I’m pulled back to sit and talk with others…

I am talking and talking and listening and listening and my mind wants to sleep but my tortured soul loves every minute of this.  A muskrat runs through the lobby and no one seems to mind.  A mister-lady shows me her tattoo and I think I should understand what it means but I don’t.  I smile politely anyway because you do that when you’re dreaming about really absurd things.  I glance at my watch and it says 5:00 a.m.  I announce I am leaving and I make a run for it…

I am running and running and running… and going nowhere and I suddenly wake up with a loud gasp and I suck in oxygen while drenched in sweat.  I look around and see my beautiful wife sleeping next to me.  I lay back down, close my eyes, and try to have that dream one more time.

He arrives outside of the hotel, dressed in a newly purchased outfit - part Banana Republic Outlet, part Target-chic - accessorized with one of five pairs of shoes he strategically fit into his crowded suitcase the previous evening.  He is acutely aware that beyond those revolving doors lies uncertainty and the potential for feeling ostracized and feeling he doesn’t belong.  But the excitement of the moment, characterized by butterflies mingling with the incredibly strong airport margarita he had at his layover in Minneapolis, overtakes any trepidation he feels and, taking a deep breath of false bravado, he swings through the doors and into the lobby to meet people with funny names.

Names that are personal and synonymous with humor, love, and passionate brilliance. Names that although would be absurd to the uninitiated, roll off the tongue and sound as normal as any real name you would hear being shouted across a crowded park on a warm Sunday afternoon.  These names begin to run through his mind from years of stalking following these incredibly talented writers.  Who would he meet?  Where was Bossy and how bossy would she be? Would BusyMom show herself, offering me a tray of champagne? How red is Redneck Mommy’s neck? Would he recognize Chicky Baby if he saw her in real life?  Would Cheaper than Therapy really fit snugly into his coat pocket?  Is WeirdGirl really that weird?  Is Issa really that crazy? Were Karen’s pants REALLY made of sugar? Would Back To Me sound like she’s from Chicaaaago? And is Backpacking Dad, really that hot?

And suddenly, as if to answer every question, he is welcomed to the first of many parties.  And as he circulates around the room trying not to feel the long-ago anxiety of a middle school dance, he is approached by person after person offering warm hugs, warm wishes and cold booze.  And just like that, the acrid anxiety of not knowing washes away - leaving only the sweet smelling aroma of friendship.  Old friends and new friends and hundreds of little paper business cards stuffed unceremoniously into pockets.

Before he knows it he is 38 years old, celebrating with incredibly-generous-when-drunk bloggers, eating chocolate pouring from fountains, dining on cake shaped like a unicorn and gyrating wildly on the dance floor as 80’s songs flood the room with nostalgia and lousy singing, lasting so deep into the night that it is way past his birthday by the time he makes it to his bed.

Sleep.  This is the one thing that eludes him.  His brother shows up to surprise him and while the benefits are many, the one drawback is the jack hammer-like quality that does the term “snoring” a deep injustice.  But even this obstacle does not set him back.  Before he knows it he is headed to do a panel presentation at this mostly-women conference.  He, along with his brothers-in-arms, Avitable and BusyDad must have been total whack-jobs to accept this role (and this suspicion would soon prove to be true) as I Am Man - Hear Me Roar is sure to cause a stir.  And while the discussion goes remarkably well he is both overjoiced and simultaneously disappointed that he is NOT, in fact, linked to any of the tawdry rumors flying through the conference like those monkeys doing the bidding of the Wicked Witch of the West flying maniacally from room to room on waves of tears and squeeeeeees.

Time continues to fly and before he knows it, the conference is coming to an end to be culminated by dinner amongst new friends, parties with cheeseburgers and hats made of paper bags proudly perched upon his head.  And then, someone has the great idea to go to a night club and before he could protest he is being whisked off to Chicago’s party-zone and sitting in the dark but loud club trying to have conversations as fellow bloggers dance wildly to the gyrating beat.

After the urge to dance is sated, he finds himself in a hotel lobby, the same lobby he had nervously entered just two days prior, having deep conversations with newly cherished friends and feeling contented that there are such good people in the world - even if they do have the unenviable flaw of being a Red Sox fan.

But even great conversation must give in to slumber.  And as he heads back to his hotel room the sky to the east seems a bit lighter than it should for no other reason than morning beckons.  He has crammed as much fun into this time as he can handle and he snoozes into the full daylight of mid-morning.  After rising, he crams as much swag as he can into his suitcase - not an easy task with five pairs of shoes.  He looks forward to seeing his family once again but leaves knowing how many friendships he made, strengthened or cemented these past few days.

And as he sits in his tightly cramped coach chair 35,000 feet above the ground, having paid the $12.95 for airplane wi-fi, he ponders the past few days and can’t help but smile.  And yawn.

I have a story to tell.

One day, after talking to his very successful blogging cousin, a guy decides to start a blog. He starts it. Then starts it again. Wonders why anyone would read his blog and begins once more when he and his wife move away from family and friends. The blog becomes a way to keep family up to date on his life.

Then his wife gets pregnant. With twins. And suddenly, he begins find a voice for what he really enjoys writing about. This parenting thing, it turns out, provides some pretty good material for writing. Then, while writing, he finds he isn’t alone. He finds other guys out there who are having children and writing about how fun being a dad is.

But there those dads were few and far between. Mostly, his blog world consisted of the women of the blogosphere. They would come to his blog, leave encouraging comments and make him feel like he belonged. They’d laugh together. They’d cry together. And over time he felt a real kinship with many of the female bloggers he was fortunate enough to interact with.

Then one year, a female blogging conference was held. It was a complete success and people were talking about it all over the place. He thought that was cool. A central place where he could meet some amazing people who he had only known through their blog names. But there’s no way he’d go. It was for women. And he was certainly not a woman.

But then he heard other male bloggers attended subsequent conferences and survived to tell the tale. But still he decided it wasn’t for him. But he really wanted to go.

And then, this year, events unfolded that showed him that these women (and some guys too) weren’t just blog friends, they were real friends. They were friends who could be counted upon during difficult times and for the first time, he felt a need to meet these kind souls. In person. Without pixels and bits getting in the way. So he bought a ticket. Booked a flight. Reserved a hotel room. But he still couldn’t believe he was going.

But now that day is coming. In two days he will board a plane to meet his friends. He will celebrate his 38th birthday with these friends and that seems fitting since they certainly helped him through a very challenging 37th year.

So, the bags will be packed with newly bought clothes. He’ll even have a small part of a panel discussion at the conference but the most important thing will to look friends in the eye who have been so generous and say, “Thank you.”

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