tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82550261732887518332024-03-13T05:31:39.912+01:00I once was a writer...Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.comBlogger138125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-34888847146957886612023-10-10T14:55:00.000+02:002023-10-10T14:55:07.903+02:00Enough<p>I woke up at 6 am today. This wasn't early enough. </p><p>I got ready for the day. Took my oldest to school, took my youngest to his yearly check-up, then to Kindergarten. Went to work, handled calls and emails and tasks and had only 2 cups of coffee. </p><p>All of this wasn't enough.</p><p>I picked up my children and their friends, served as carpool for one and as "home for the day" for the other. I prepared a balanced, home-cooked meal from scratch, including potatoes that I had harvested with my children a few weeks earlier - which (I also feel is relevant to point out) we had planted a few months earlier. While the kids ate, I unloaded the dishwasher, cleaned the kitchen and finished a load of laundry. And still, this wasn't enough.</p><p>One kid was picked up for sport, another kid came to replace him. While the children played, I tended to the garden, I checked the mailbox, I picked up after them, I tidied up a bit. Then I took those 3 kids to their sport and picked up 4 new kids to bring them to my place for a playdate. Now while these kids destroyed the house playing, I sat down with my friend and had a cup of tea, while planing the carpool for swimming, that birthday party that we're both invited to, checking to see whether we might be able to take a short vacation six months from now. I may make it seem like we were conversing flawlessly and uninterrupted, but the fact of the matter is that we were both also playing referree to those 4 kids: there were guitars thrown at people's faces, there was a poop-in-pants incident, there were loud giggles and then painful cries, the same kid almost fell down the stairs twice, there was silence that terrified us and then we realized that the kids thought it would be hilarious to spread all the clean laundry on the floor and step on it. Also, there was toothpaste on the sink?! I cleaned up after all 4 kids, then 3 kids left and my oldest came back. </p><p>Nothing that I did that afternoon was enough.</p><p>I made dinner for my children. We sat down at the dinner table and talked about Pangea, about how sad we are that some dinosaurs are extinct but how relieved we are that some actually are (bye-bye T-Rex!), about how oil comes from the earth and glass is made from sand and what will happen if all of the sand on the earth is used up and what about volcanoes and how are island made and omg have you noticed this sentence has no punctuation because that it exactly how our dinner conversation went just nonstop all the time one kid talking and the other talking and me in the middle trying to answer all their questions until I ran out of answers.</p><p>That was all not good enough.</p><p>We went upstairs and got ready for bed. Teeth brushed, fresh PJs chosen, books read, questions (more questions) were answered and discussed and debated. Good-night calls were made. I sang Christoph his good-night song. I put my forehead on Rolfie's forehead and reminded him that I loved him. I tucked them both in and still sat down with them until they fell asleep. Once they fell asleep I made sure they were nice and warm, that the night-light was working properly, that the humidifier had enough eucalyptus oil to help them both sleep better, that all clothes were in their place, that the closet doors were closed, that no toys were left on the floor. I left their room and did one last around-the-house-pick-up: living room, dining room, kitchen. I loaded the dishwasher, cleaned the countertop, put things back in their place. </p><p>Still with that voice inside my head (is it really inside my head, though?) asking whether I had done enough.</p><p>I jogged for 30 minutes on my treadmill. I showered. I cleaned the bathroom. I put more laundry away. I sat down to type this, I answered messages, I started to fill in those papers and forms and documents that require my attention. </p><p>Around midnight I had no energy left, but I kep wondering why I was so tired, if I had done nothing all day. Nothing. Nothing was accomplished, nothing was completed, nothing was enough.</p><p>And that was the moment I came to the realization that I am enough. What I do is enough. </p><p>The fact that you were unable to see this is not my problem. And now I am the one who has had enough.</p>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-47272533739247261642023-09-25T23:10:00.001+02:002023-09-25T23:10:38.590+02:00My bucket list<p>As I enter my 40th year on this earth, I find myself with the need to create a Bucket List. Not because I have a sudden fear of death or because I feel my life has been empty until now. Neither of those are true. Rather, "new decade, new me".</p><p>I want to travel the world. I want to discover what new cultures, new languages, new foods and new people have to share. </p><p>I want to go to the happiest place on Earth, and I want to discuss whether the flavors I am tasting are rather red or purple fruits, while the sun sets on the west coast and my purple dress floats with the cool breeze of the pacific fall. </p><p>I want to go back home and drink coffee while sitting on the veranda, knowing that this cup was harvested, milled, dried, ground and prepared with love for me, exclusively. I want to get lost trying to find out where the mountains of the Sierra Nevada blend into the Caribbean Sea, while the birds drown the silence and the fresh caribbean spring breeze wisks my curls across my face. I want to hear my kids laughing with my parents, while my sister sits with me and listens to my stories from 20 years ago.</p><p>I want to be a tourist in Berlin, Frankfurt and Hamburg and serve as a translator while I try to define the differences between the stereotypical German and the dogmatic German cultural tradition. I want to look up at skyscrapers and old statues in that green hue of ancient (patriarchal) history. Maybe even take a kayak ride down a German river and see what this German life in a big metropolis is like.</p><p>I want to go to the Dominican Republic and get drunk on the salty smell of the ocean and high on the coconut rice and plátanos. I want to have dawns merge with dusks because time is irrelevant and the warm, summer breeze intoxicates with its musical hum. I want to disappear into a hotel and not think, not ponder, not wonder - just exist, free of duties of accountability.</p><p>I want to go to Paris and stare out of my hotel window into the river Seine, then have dinner at the Eiffel Tower and walk down the Champs Elysées during a cool, fall evening, listening to La Vie en Rose playing on some bohemian accordeon somewhere in the background. I want to go to the Moulin Rouge and walk down the stairs of Mont Martre and get literally lost in the Louvre, while soaking up all the beauty that humanity has had to offer in the past centuries.</p><p>I want to go to Las Vegas and try my luck - experience the Strip, the shows, the dry, dessert air. </p><p>I want to go to Iceland and sink in the natural hot springs and visit the fairies and experience a land of matriarchy and equality.</p><p>I want to go to Peru and get served plates that combine flavors I once thought to be incompatible, while being absolutely amazed by the explosion of feelings happening in my taste buds.</p><p>I want to travel the world. </p><p>I don't need a juicer, a grinder, or expensive ear pods. I don't care about the price of the things I have. I care about the experience I will be living - and mostly, I care about being able to have an adventure worth writing about. </p><p>And while the fact that every single paragraph above started very purposely with myself, the truth remains that as much as I want to find myself traveling the world, I am also very much looking forward to being found.</p>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-18402588927022935492023-09-18T00:03:00.014+02:002023-09-18T00:03:00.141+02:00Time<p>I always needed more time. I was always complaining about not having enough time. I could never do what I had to do, because I didn't have the time. Much less could I do what I wanted to do, because there was no time. Self-care? No time. </p><p>And for those things that I did need to find time for, it was always tightly scheduled. Garden work? Hurry, there is little time. Reading to my children? Only one book, there is no time. Dessert after a meal? Quicky, there is no time. Showering or bathing in the tub? Not so long, we don't have time. </p><p>Always this excuse, always this word, always this made-up concept. Made-up, yes, but absolutely necessary. My kids, for example, want to eat dinner and chat and also play a game and then eat seconds and then have dessert and then a hug and then cuddle and then please-don't-make-me-brush-my-teeth and then also read a book together and also read a book alone and listen to a song and listen to a story book and ... there are only so many hours in the day, and there are only so many things we can achieve in a specific amount of time.</p><p>Time.</p><p>And that's just what my children demand from me. I have not mentioned that I work (part-time), that I have a wonderful social circle with friends who are my family to whom I must also dedicate time. And laundry, ohsomuchlaundry - how many people live in my house? Although I can't say that "the dishes won't wash themselves" because they kind of do (thanks you, DishWashingMachineGod1), I still need to load and unload the machine. I still need to clean and service my vacuum-cleaning-robot and my lawn-mowing-robot. I need to set the table and clean the table. I need to make sure the lights are turned off, lock the doors, close the windows, that the coffee machine is ready for tomorrow (I just realized how many machines I have in my daily life... am I the real-life Jetsons?). </p><p>I have a million things on my to-do list that I either don't get to check off on time, or that repeat themselves the next day, and the next, and the next. </p><p>Until there came a day when I woke up and had all the time in the world. Not only did I not have anything planned, not only had I already finished the "daily tasks", but also I was alone.</p><p>Alone and with time.</p><p>Which can also be read as, </p><p><b><i>with time and alone.</i></b></p><p>I woke up and did not have to get up. There was nothing to do (Saturday, no work) and the kids weren't here. The coffee machine was set to start brewing automatically, so I did not have to get out of bed. The laundry had been washed and hung the day before. The garden was ok. I turned on the lawn-mower robot and the vacuum-robot with the App on my phone from my bad, still under the covers, so the daily chores were still happening.</p><p>At some point I got up and watched a not-rated-for-kids movie on the TV, with volume on (I usually watch those on my phone, with headphones, so that the kids won't hear the bad words or the violence). I had my breakfast on the couch. Then I painted a wall (!). Then I showered, got dressed and went out. By this time, I had not said one single word out loud since I woke up. The silence, the peace, the space, the freedom, the T I M E.</p><p> I finally had what I wanted. Time. My, how precious. How invaluable.</p><p>But also... </p><p>...how lonely.</p><p>Because on that Saturday I did all the things, <i>all the things</i>. But when evening came, my only thought was my children. I called to say goodnight and it was lovely, they were happy, they were safe and warm and loved. Only that they weren't with me. I did not have my kids, but I had time. </p><p>What a horrible thing to write. To think. I exchanged my kids for time.</p><p>Sunday started out good, but once I opened my eyes and realized that I had yet one more day of TIME, and yet one more day without my children, the question inevitably crawled from my head into my heart: is time really that valuable? Has it been worth it? </p><p>Of course everyone has an answer to this question, and every answer is valid in and of itself- no judgement, no dirty looks, no comments from my side. For me, in my very personal opinion, the free time that I was gifted does not override the love I have for my children, nor does it replace the lack of time I have when I am with them. If I am gifted this "free space" every two weeks to recharge and decompress and sleep and paint and - whatever. Whatever is, or isn't, on my list for that day... that TIME will help me be a better mom. </p><p>I don't know when you are reading this, but I am writing this on Sunday at almost 11 pm, and I will see my kids again in about 9 hours. When I see them Monday morning, I will be a better mom. I will still not have time when I am with them, because every second that I have, I spend trying to make their lives magical and adventurous and wondeful and, yes, also filled with routine and cleanliness and homework and house chores. But my time will be spent with them, for them. Every two weeks I will get a little of time for me. And I am ok with that. Because "you only have 18 summers" with your children, and Rolfie has already had 8, which means that, with luck, I have only 10 more summers with him. I have only 13 more summers with Christoph. And if that means that I have to give up my time to be able to invest time in them, with them, then I will gladly do so.</p><p>What is time, anyway, if not an illusion?</p><p>And what is life, anyway, if not but a dream? </p><p>Then let me enjoy this timeless dream with my family, until it is time to wake up.</p><p>And then, I will have all the time in the world.</p>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-25944940947370578232023-09-11T00:30:00.001+02:002023-09-11T00:30:00.154+02:00As I lay... waiting for Godot<p>Since mash-ups in the musical industry are the big hit at the moment, I fugured I'd jump on that bandwagon and attempt to mash-up some literature myself. Because, in the infamous words of my little sister, "why not?!"</p><p>As I lay dying - and this is a very metaphoric death, because at my latest check-up my doctor told me I have the health of a 30-year-old - I find myself rather than pondering the future, just waiting for Godot. Interesting, because as a pscudo-catholic, the kind that just follows the socially-accepted holidays and refuses to pay taxes to the institution, I do find myself praying to God to show me the reason for my sadness, to guide me out of it. To save me. Now, I don't want to say God has not responded - rather, I'm aware that I may not be listening. It is hard to listen to that which one does not want to accept or admit. </p><p>Waiting for Godot I have noticed that I have been waiting for a long time now. Always with a good excuse, always with good reason. Waiting for my husband to come home. Waiting for my kids to grow up. Waiting for my calling. Waiting for anwers. Maybe even waiting for questions. And the waiting is tiresome. Are you familiar with the Dr. Seuss book "Oh, the places you'll go"? In that book, he describes the Waiting Place. Everytime I read my kids that book, everytime we get to that part, I make funny voices and exaggerate the whole Waiting Place experience - <i>for people just waiting.</i> And then the next page has big, bolded. all-caps "NO! THIS IS NOT FOR YOU!" and this part always gets to me. The Waiting Place is not for me, yet here I am. How can I expect my kids to move mountains, like Dr. Seuss requests, while their mother is just waiting?</p><p>As I lay dying I realize that only a part of me is dying. Just one facet, so to speak. Endings always bring new beginnings, and this metaphorical death is but the gateway to a new beginning, to a new start, to a new life, to a new future. (Can one have an old future?) I am incredibly sad, sadder than I have ever been before in the last 40 years. I am lost. I am afraid. I am confused and angry and - did I say already that I am terribly afraid? Because I am. Yet there is no option but to move forward, face my fears and get back up to start again. And again. And again.</p><p>Waiting for Godot I find myself anxious with what the future holds in stock for me. What have I not done in the past 17 years that I want to do now? I remember making a promise 11 years ago that was broken for me - and then I broke it. I had promised I would never travel without my partner, but then my partner travelled without me and I thought, why not? So there have been several (three, that I can remember) times in the past 8 years that I have travelled alone, and I want to continue to do that. I will not cease to travel the world and go back home because of lack of company. I am good company. (I do not belive this today, as I write this. But maybe upon re-reading this, I will believe it.) </p><p>As I lay dying I realize that I do, in fact, need to (metaphorically) die. I do need to hit rock-bottom and let go of that dependant little girl who a decade ago put her head down and stopped being a leader to become a follower. That little girl, willing to serve and please and help and assist and take second place, does need to die. I am not a damsel in distress - I was, I was a damsel in distress and that version of me needs to die. </p><p>Waiting for Godot I can openly and honestly say it was not all bad. In fact, it wasn't bad at all (until it was). Wonderful things have happened and I am so thankful for them all. I'm not yet thankful for the bad things, it will take me a while to reach the level of maturity required for that. But I can so easily look back and see just the good. Just the happy. Just the nice. Just the love. A lot of love. </p><p>As I lay dying I mourn for all that will be left in the past. And while I am waiting for Godot, I will allow myself to look forward to the most unpredictable and unexpected of futures. </p>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-4151469664241436172023-09-06T00:21:00.001+02:002023-09-10T21:37:13.414+02:00Finding Myself<p>I'm well aware of all my identities, past and present. I wear them like masks - some, I have even worn like capes. Proudly displaying them for the world to see and admire. I used to believe that I could "put on" one identity and be authentic, and then "put on" another one and still the authentic. And at least in my heart I was authentic. Natalya, the 16-year-old poet was an authentic identity for me; Natalya, the Journalist was a thrilling identity (that came with an official badge and access to many venues and people I would have otherwise not been able to get close to); Natalya, the Foreigner was (and continues to be!) my favorite identity, the one with which I feel most at ease. Perhaps because it is the simplest one, the one that requires the least amount of work from my side: I just happen to not have been born where I live. I have been living with this identity for 22 years.</p><p>Most recently, Rolfs-Mutter and Christophs-Mama have joined the ranks of my favorite identities. I remember being so deeply offended when people forgot or misspelled my name; but the fact that, to a group of little kids, the whole reason for my existence is to be their friend's mother, <b><u>that</u></b> made me feel a sense of completeness that I had never felt before (I know, it sounds super lame and cliché: <i>you will never know true love until you have kids</i>, blah blah blah. I don´t agree with this and and I am in no sense advocating that everyone should have plenty of kids - it is a very personal, very serious decision. For me, it was the right one). I am saved on several phones as Rolfs Mama, which I find charming... because so many of my kids' friends' moms are also saved like this. </p><p>Somewhere between The Poet and The Mom, I got married and also became The Wife. Frau Hergett. I willingly and voluntarily (the redundance is very much on purpose!!) renounced my name and chose to follow German law in order to use my husband's name. (Upon marriage, spouses can choose a "Family Name" or keep their own names - we chose a Family Name, which is not possible under Colombian law.) Somewhere between The Poet and The Wife, I also became an Employee, and I was good. And further down the road, I acquired so many different identities, again, that it was hard for me to find The One with which I felt most like myself. I joined the PTA, I was always down for some wine, apparently my Mexican cooking is "super authentic", I sew and paint and create things with my kids; I have a garden with flowers and fruits and vegetables and herbs; I jog (seldom and randomly and I hate it - but I do it). I clean, I cook, I help with homework; I read books, I watch movies. </p><p>There comes a time, though, when something triggers a nasty thought: WHO are you? WHO am I? Because I have been defined by my actions, by my family, by my nationality. But WHO am I?</p><p>I have been recently told that "I gave myself up" and that I "lost myself", or that I am "a lot cooler than <u><i>just</i></u> someone's wife." Just as recently, I read a post about a woman my age, from my hometown, also married and also a mom, who was posing the question whether one can be a good mother AND a good writer simultaneously. (Spoiler alert: the answer is no.) And it made me think... how many things do I do for others, to ensure their basic well-being or their utmost happiness (and everything in between), and how many things do I do FOR ME?</p><p>Also spoiler alert: very few, because <i>I do not have the time.</i> Yet I find the time for everyone else's priorities. Why have I placed myself off of my priority list? I'm not even at the bottom, I'm just not there. I have plenty of good excuses and explanations, but the fact of the matter remains that I have stopped paying attention to myself and, in doing so, I have lost myself. How long have I been lost?!</p><p>I am not sure what kind of movies I like (sorry, <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/67zznbYAASy7pbGf13Ikc8" target="_blank">Knights of Cinema</a>. But I do LOVE your podcast!). I am not sure what my favorite food is (whatever I do not have to cook) or what my favorite ice-cream flavor is. I don't know what kind of music I like (my playlist is a mixture of kids' music and songs OTHER people love) or what kind of clothing style I prefer. I don't know what I want to drink and I don't know what I want to do (both literally and metaphorically). </p><p>I don't know who I am. When I take all of my identity masks off, I. DO. NOT. KNOW. WHO. I. AM.</p><p>I'm 40, but that's a fact, not an identity. I'm a mom, also a fact, not an identity. And it is about damn time that I figure out who I am.</p><p>One thing is clear for me: on this journey to Finding Myself, the one thing that is constant is that I Once Was A Writer and that I feel at peace when I write. Just look at the last 10 posts, how deep and infrequent and introspective they are. Sad, even? </p><p>Maybe I am sad. Maybe I need to be sad in order to wipe off the masks and just start off with a clean slate trying to figure out who I am. I once read that in order to be a writer, the only thing you have to do is WRITE. So here I am, writing. I'm not sure who's reading. I'm not sure if I have anything to say that's wroth reading. I'm not sure if I want to say what I have to say, or if I should. But that's all unimportant because in this journey to Finding Myself there is only one thing that matters.</p><p>MYSELF. </p>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-40107459958743397602020-04-27T07:00:00.000+02:002020-04-27T07:00:04.950+02:00ChallengesDuring this peculiar time*, we are all faced with challenges.<br />
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<i>*I think that I need to clear this up for posterity. Today, we all know that this "peculiar time" refers ro the Coronavirus - COVID-19 Pandemic that is terrorizing the world. Although Germany does not have strict quarantine rules (rather a regulation that prevents gatherings of two or more people not belonging to the same household, both privately and publicly), my husband and I decided that, for the well-being of the family, and since (thanks to my job) I can, I would quarantine with the children at home. Kindergarten (all schools, actually) are closed, so they have to stay home; I have the privilege of being able to work from home, so it all kind of works out. As I write this, I am in my seventh week of quarantine - 45 days. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Before the pandemic and the quarantine, I used to measure my successes (and failures) in years, months perhaps. I say, filled with sadness, that 2019 was the worst year of my life. And although I stand by that statement, it was the year that I got to fly home twice, and the year I returned to the workforce, and the year I strengthened friendships in my tiny little village. I used to say it was a good week at work, or a bad day with bad traffic or cramps. Ah, the joys of life outside of quarantine.<br />
<br />
Now months are all mixed up into one time period, days are blurred and I no longer differentiate a weekday from the weekend. I measure my time in hours. I have good hours and bad hours. Successful hours and failed hours. Relaxing hours and stressful hours.<br />
<br />
My day begins at 6 am, and from 6 to 7 I am busy waking up, making coffee and reading and responding to work emails. From 7 to 8 I am both working and tending to kids waking up who want hugs and attention and love and cuddles. From 8 to 9 the computer is off (except for yesterday, when I had a call scheduled from 8 to 8:10, and Christoph decided that <i>that </i>would be the best time to burst in, yell WA-WOU! (his version of "hello"), and start playing the recorder (flute) - luckily Florian was amused and not at all annoyed. At least that is how I choose to remember his reaction), so we chill in bed, kids drink their hot chocolate (currently it is a Hamburg special edition cocoa, but as soon as that is over, they will switch to the off-brand Nesquick we have since before Rolf was born. There's no expiration date on that thing, right?) and I enjoy my third cup of cold coffee (not cold <i>brew</i> coffee, just coffee that has taken me way too long to drink. From 9 to 10 we have breakfast. From 10 to 11 we try to go out to the garden, or we try to play around the house; sometimes it's fun, sometimes both kids are glued to the TV, sometimes one kid is glued to the TV and another kid is glued to me. This is also the time where I try to do laundry or dishes or pick up the toys that I <u>know</u> are going to be back on the floor in a while. From 11 to 12 I spend every minute counting down the minutes to putting Christoph to sleep so that I can go back to work. From 12 to 1 I am simultaneously working, making lunch, putting Christoph to sleep, spending 1-on-1 quality time with Rolf, and looking for some spare minute where I can breathe alone and offline for some sort of self-care. From 1 to 2 I am concentrating on work and getting ready for meetings. From 2 to 3 I am usually in meetings, or using the last minutes of Christoph's nap to get ahead with work, or sitting by Rolf's side, attempting to work while he teaches me how to play the Avengers PS3 game, or he tries to explain the lineage of his Ninjago heroes. From 3 to 4 we all eat some kind of lunch/snack together, usually in the garden outside (weather permitting) or in the wintergarden inside, which is usually warm and cozy - also the ONLY room in the house where both kids are allowed to paint and make a mess without my getting upset. From 4 to 5 I try to decide whether I need coffee or wine, being too late for the former and too early for the latter. From 5 to 6 the kids bathe - sometimes for a glorious half-hour, sometimes for a constant-arguing-whining-and-crying 10 minutes. From 6 to 7 I attempt to get them in bed. Usually this is a lie, a failure, a problem - and it ends up being 8 pm before both have finally closed their eyes. At 8 I turn my computer back on and go back to my unfinished tasks from earlier in the day. At some time, my husband comes home, we have dinner together, talk about our days, and around 11 it is bedtime for us. It takes me about an hour to wind down and process every hour of my day; I review the hours where I failed, I cherish the hours where I succeeded. I think and plan and hope for a good day tomorrow, fully aware that the concept of "day" is misleading. And at 6 am the next day, it starts all over again.<br />
<br />
My challenge is to begin the day with a smile, so that the first thing my children see when they open their eyes is a smiling, fresh, energetic mom. It's a mask I wear, of course, because I do not feel like smiling, I am not feeling fresh, and I am no where near energized. My second challenge is to end the day smiling, hopefully having read a book and sang a song and hugged and tickled, because I want my kids to have a happy <i>last </i>memory of the day. It's a difficult act, because at the end of the day the only thing I want is silence. I don't want to read or sing or tickle. I don't want to play. I don't want to wrestle them into fresh PJs. But I play the role I have chosen and I read and sing and hug and tickle and wrestle and tuck them in, and then I tuck their teddies in (Rolf has two), and I kiss booboos on both my kids and their teddies, and I turn the lights off and I silently cry when I turn the lights off because I am so exhausted and I need silence...<br />
<br />
I try.<br />
<br />
Some hours are good. Some hours are terrible. There is plenty in between. Some hours are OK. Some hours are slightly rough. Some hours are just... well, they just are.<br />
<br />
It's a challenge. And I know I am not alone. We are all facing challenges. I was complaining to a colleague (while hiding in the bathroom for a short Teams meetings) that my kids never left me a minute to breathe; and she said that she scheduled calls instead of wrote emails because she is utterly alone and the loneliness is driving her mad. So I complain because I have constant company, and she because she years for it.<br />
<br />
I was complaining to a friend that I was having a hard time working full-time and caring for two children full-time and taking care of a house full-time, and she said that she wishes she had work, because she has run out of craft ideas to do with her kids, and even with Netflix and Amazon Prime and Disney+, she wishes she had something else to occupy her time (and her neurons) on than just laundry and dirty diapers.<br />
<br />
I was complaining to my cousin that my oldest son hates going out, and that my youngest needs to go out, so I am constantly torn between the garden and the living room, opening the door for one to go out and closing the door for the other to stay in. My cousin said that, in order to go to the park, she has to go down 5 flights of stairs, take a bus, then walk 5 blocks, all that while carrying her not-quite-3-year-old and the bobby car and the backpack with snacks and drinks and toys and extra clothes because one never knows.<br />
<br />
I was complaining to my husband that I need time off the children this weekend, and he replied that he will gladly spend alone-time with them, because this whole past week he has only gotten to see them from 7 to 7:30 am, before he goes to work, because by the time he comes home, they are asleep already.<br />
<br />
All of my complaints are valid. All of the response complaints are valid. Your complaints - and mine - are not measured up against a Complaint Measuring Stick that qualifies whether they are appropriate or not. You base and measure your life based on YOU. I base and measure my life based on ME.<br />
<br />
I know I am privileged, but I am still able to complain.<br />
<br />
Of course I say this without actually believing it, because the reason why I am nearing a burn-out is because I don't feel like I am qualified to complain, so I keep it all in and put on my smiling-mask and I play the super-mommy-full-time-employee-also-house-wife role and I set unreachable goals for myself... so that at the end of the day I can sit down and count my failures.<br />
<br />
My challenge is to count the successes instead of the failures. They may be few and in between, but there are some. And even if it doesn't seem like it <i>to me</i>, I am doing my best. And my best is enough.<br />
<br />
What is your challenge?Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-58555480511677489192020-03-11T08:14:00.003+01:002020-03-11T08:14:27.616+01:00I once was a writerFor a long time, I described myself as a writer. That was my identity. It seemed that everything and anything around me could change, but that was the one true thing about me that remained the same. My country of residence changed, and I was still a writer. People were born and died, and I was still a writer. I was a student, a teacher, an employee, a SAHM, unemployed - whatever - and I was still a writer. Friends came and went, boys came and went, and I was still a writer.<br />
<br />
I always had something to say.<br />
<br />
(Whether it was worth reading or not, that was always up to YOU.)<br />
<br />
I always had something to say because I was always doing something, adding some sort of value to society, actively seeking adventures, experiencing new things, worlds, cultures, languages, peoples...<br />
<br />
...and then one day, I had nothing to say.<br />
<br />
I tried to find my voice, and you can see that in the sporadic dates in which I posted in the past, after 2 years of regular weekly posts. I lost my voice because I lost myself. And it's not that I wasn't doing anything - oh, I was doing plenty. I was creating a human being, I was making <i>bones</i>, ok? My body made BONES. Let that sink in for a while.<br />
<br />
And then my life wasn't mine anymore, and though I would have loved (and would still love) to share every detail (because that's what writers do: they write), it was no longer mine alone to share. The #littleBabyHergett stories were amazing (and now there's two of them, so it's double the amazingness), but slowly I realized that they weren't my stories to tell.<br />
<br />
Growing up, my mom was a teacher in a school for girls (that has no relevance to the story); those girls were my age, maybe one or two years older. In trying to establish rapport with them, she would share stories about ME. WITHOUT HAVING EVER ASKED ME. Do you know how I found out? I was in the pool one day, and this girl came up to me for whatever reason, and we started talking, and one thing led to the other and she found out whose daughter I was - dude, she freaked the F out. Like, she just went crazy. "OMG I FEEL LIKE I KNOW YOU! I KNOW ALL ABOUT YOU! I LOVE YOU!", she yelled at me. And then she yelled at other girls on the other side of the pool, "YOU GUYS! YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THIS! THIS IS IRENE'S DAUGHTER!"<br />
<br />
<i>La hija de Irene.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Irene's daughter. Oh, sorry: Irene's Daughter.<br />
<br />
It was a title. I was stripped of my identity and I became this title, like this empty vessel that they filled with the stories my mom had chosen to share with them.<br />
<br />
Now, please, don't get me wrong. My mom is AMAZING. She is a badass. She is indescribably fantastic and I love her dearly. I am proud to be her daughter.<br />
<br />
But that's not all I want to be. I want to be me (the writer?), the <u>me</u> that has an awesome mom.<br />
<br />
So I remembered that every time I wrote a post about either of my two #littleBabyHergetts. And I also remembered saying to a now 15yo, "OMG you're mom writes so much about you, I feel like I know you!" I saw her cringe as I said this, and I myself cringed as the words were sliding down my tongue, leaving my mouth, making my foolishness apparent, nay, OBVIOUS to the world.<br />
<br />
I don't know her, regardless of how much her mom wrote about her. Just like those girls didn't know me. (Sidebar: I'm still friends with Priscy after all these years. She got the <i>privilege </i>of getting to know me, the real me, beyond what my mom had chosen to share. Of course I joke: <u><b>I</b></u> was the one who got the privilege of knowing her.)<br />
<br />
And I would hate for someone to come up to one of my kids and make comments (regardless of how well-intended they are) of things that they thought had been private and be like "I feel like I know you!", because that's super creepy. (Public apology to Emerson for having said that - I really am sorry. I don't know you, but I would LOVE to have the privilege of getting to know YOU.)<br />
<br />
It's one thing when we share cute stories with friends and family, but it's a completely different thing when I choose to write stories about other people to post on the world wide web, where (regardless of how many people do in fact read this) they will remain public forever. I follow friends on instragram who document every single moment of their children's lives, and I am so glad to be able to see these kids grow, because in this new global society we are no longer limited to a physical Tribe, but rather open to endless and limitless possibilities for virtual socialization. I'm happy to see them, but I wonder if they are happy to be seen.<br />
<br />
That's the reason I disappeared. Well, one of the reasons. I had no stories of my own and didn't feel like the owner of the stories I wanted to tell. So I had nothing to say.<br />
<br />
And what do you say, when you have nothing to say?<br />
<br />
Nothing.<br />
<br />
I said nothing for a really long time (both practically and virtually) and I lost my voice (also practically and virtually). I lost myself. It seemed like I had so many identities, that I identified with none. I felt like I was failing at everything that I was doing, and that anyway I was not doing anything; so I, the perfectionist overachiever, was failing at doing nothing. That is the lowest low there is, if you ask me.<br />
<br />
It has taken time, a lot of it; it has taken patience, a lot of it; it has taken love, a LOT of it, both from my friends and family, and from MYSELF, to come to peace with this new me. I once read that "if you want to be a writer, all you have to do it write" - and that hit hard, because that IS what I want(ed) to be, and that is exactly what I was NOT doing. I'm super adamant about people not calling me a poet, because I haven't been a poet in over two decades; I'm ok with being called <i>La Literata</i>, because I have two BAs and one MA to support that claim. But can I call myself a writer if I don't write? And if I'm not a writer,<b> what am I</b>, then?<br />
<br />
I once was a writer - I know that. I have the texts to prove it. But who am I now?<br />
<br />
I have so many stories to tell, and so many of them are SO worth reading. And I am excited to be able to be a writer again- even if I never did stop being a writer.Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-77342666829566167452019-04-09T21:06:00.002+02:002019-04-09T21:06:31.823+02:00Today was the day I finally had a drink<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Today was the day I finally had a drink. And I do mean an adult, alcoholic beverage. I had almost a full bottle of some not-so-cheap German white wine and I enjoyed every single drop. When I mentioned to my husband how good the wine was, he said, "Is it really good or are you just happy to be drinking again?" We both laughed. I figure both. I think the wine *is* good, and also I *do* miss drinking. The way I see it, it's a win-win for me. I hadn't had a drink in two years. Two years. TWO. YEARS. I don't consider myself an alcoholic, but OH MY GOD did I miss drinking. I don't even know if it has actually been two years, like 24 months. I was pregnant for 8 months and I breastfed exclusively for 7 months + 1 month nights. But it feels like an eternity. It feels like I hadn't had a drink since we were *planning* our first son 5 years ago. But that's completely irrelevant. I mean, how long I had actually gone without a drink is irrelevant right now. Because today is about ME reclaiming MY body. </span><br />
<br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">And I know many people will disagree and criticize me - beginning with my husband. But hear me out.</span><br />
<br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">When I became a mom 5 years ago - from the very first moment of conception 5 years ago - I gave everything up for my children's well-being. I gave it all up willingly and lovingly, but I still gave it all up. My degree, my career, some of my friends, my identity, my self-worth, self-confidence, self-everything. And if my children are one day old enough to be reading this, I want you to know I did this with love and do not regret a single instant and I do not regret giving it all up. You two are worth it and will continue to be worth it all. And for the people (women mostly, surely) who will question my having given it all up, because there are so many others before me who have been able to have it all, it was my choice and this is not what this is about. Also, I can't change the past and the choices I made so that's that. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Where was I before I felt the need to apologize and give unrequited explanations? </span><br />
<br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Drinking. Yes. Gosh I missed drinking. I also missed eating my steak medium-rare and being able to take medicine when I was sick, but that doesn't seem to be a big deal for society. Drinking, however, MAJOR TABOO. I also missed eating beans and bell peppers and drinking peppermint tea but who gives a crap about that. People give a crap about moms of babies drinking. I also missed coffee and spinach and tomato soup. But I'm not writing blogs about that, am I? Of all the things I gave up for my children's well-being, the only one that's problematic is alcohol. And that's why today I'm celebrating that I'm having a glass of wine. (Who am I kidding? The bottle is almost empty.) Because today I'm reclaiming my body as MINE. </span><br />
<br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I spoke to 3 pediatricians, 2 family practitioners, an orthopedist, 2 general surgeons, a gynecologist, a mid-wife, a doula and 4 of my favorite mom-friends and they ALL agree: have a glass of wine. Christoph is perfectly fine not breastfeeding anymore. Reclaim your body. Reclaim yourself. Drink that glass. (Or bottle.) And for the first glass, the feelings of guilt were so strong I almost did not enjoy it - but I do know the effects of alcohol in breast milk and therefore in babies and since my milk was already contaminated I might as well enjoy the contamination process. When I asked my husband, "I'm going to have a glass of wine. Would you like a beer?" he glared at me. Now, if you ask him he'll say he most definitely did NOT glare. But he did. Because he, like so many men, are not used to women reclaiming stuff. The best for his children is breast milk - which I am not debating. It IS best. But at 8 months, our fat and healthy second child will survive - nay, THRIVE even if he isn't exclusively breastfed anymore. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I'm trying to find myself again. Trying to rediscover who I am in the midst of all the additional identities I've acquired in the past 5 years. </span><br />
<br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I wonder how you would describe me. Would you say I am Natalya, the writer? Natalya, the poet? Natalya, the foreigner? Natalya from Colombia - South</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> America not South Carolina? Natalya, Nini's sister? Natalya, Irene's daughter? Natalya, Alycia's granddaughter? Natalya, Gustavo's wife? Natalya, Rolfie's mom?</span><br />
<br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">It's been so long since I've been Natalya, the writer, that I don't even know if I know her. Or if I even want to be her. I don't think I ever liked being Natalya, the poet (especially because in Spanish <i>Natalya, la poetisa </i>was both a condescending term and a female adjective). For half my life (literally) I've been a foreigner and I've loved that. But now, after 9 years in Germany, that term is just a technicality; because honestly, I'm more German than our German friends. </span><br />
<br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I went to vote in Hamburg earlier this year and the lady checking my ID card shrieked, "OMG ¡¿tu eres la hermana de Nini?!" It had always been Nini, Natalya's sister. But somewhere in the past 18 years abroad, the tables turned and my little sister became the main subject and I just an appendage to her existence.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">When I walk around Kiel I still get the random question, "tu eres la esposa de Gustavo, ¿cierto?" Which is true. But am I not so much more than that?</span><br />
<br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Every Monday I go read in Rolfie's kindergarden, and every Monday I hear the same call: Rolfs Mama ist zum vorlesen da! I don't know that anyone knows my name there.</span><br />
<br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">And that's all cool - I know all those people mean well. I know it's not personal or meant to be offensive. </span><br />
<br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">But it's still usurping my identity.</span><br />
<br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">...</span><br />
<br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Which is ironic because I don't know what my identity is. Or what it should be.</span><br />
<br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">So as I drink this last glass of wine (because the bottle is empty), I try to reclaim whatever identity I have. Maybe I have to come to terms with the fact that I no longer have ONE identity, but rather a mixture. Yes, I am Natalya, the foreigner; but I'm also Gustavo's wife and Rolf and Christoph's mom and Nini's sister and Irene's daughter and Alycia's granddaughter and maybe somewhere very deep within me I'm still Natalya the writer. All of those selves are still me. Because one evolves and grows and changes. And that's all good.</span><br />
<br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Today I had a glass/bottle of wine and took the first step towards finding me. Later tonight I will have some pre-hangover medicine and tomorrow morning I'll probably take a pill for the highly-likely headache and drink some strong coffee. Throughout the day I may have some peppermint tea and for lunch I'll order a medium-rare steak with a side of red bell peppers and beans. And my husband will be ok and my children will be ok and the world will continue to be ok.</span><br />
<br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">But - most importantly - *I will be ok.* </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Or so I hope.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">One can hope, right? </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Here's raising my glass to finding myself. </span><br />
<br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Cheers to me.</span>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-8984906262084979602017-11-25T22:15:00.000+01:002017-11-25T22:15:26.190+01:00Yes, I spoil my childYes, I spoil my child. I'm perfectly conscious of what I'm doing, and I'm not sure I want to stop.<br />
<br />
You see, I was pregnant. We were going to be a family of four. We had so many plans. Our son was beginning to understand that he was going to be a big brother. We started looking for a big house where a family of four could grow up and grow old. We started looking for ugly yet absolutely useful minivans, where we'd all fit. We started unpacking my son's old baby clothes and my pregnancy clothes. We started telling our loved ones that our family was growing.<br />
<br />
We had so many plans.<br />
<br />
And then one day, I wasn't pregnant anymore.<br />
<br />
As quickly as it came, it went away.<br />
<br />
And all our plans? Well. They changed.<br />
<br />
Our daily lives changed too. Especially those first few days. You see, I was to have the "extraction" operation on Friday - the day I turned 34. So the plans we had with my son (to make a cake from scratch together, to open presents in the park, to go to bed late after watching a movie) were abruptly cancelled. No birthday cake, no blowing candles. No time to feel pain or sadness either, because a 2-and-a-half year old does not understand why Mommy is sad or why we can't go to the park.<br />
<br />
My son was almost "a big boy" who slept in his bed alone. But that first night after I was no longer pregnant, I held his hand all night. I sat by his side, on the floor, and held him. My only child. And now, almost 6 months later, I hold his hand every night until he falls asleep. Because I can never hold the hand of the child I lost, I hold his. My only child.<br />
<br />
My son is a bad eater, but I was very strict with meal times and eating at the table. But those first days after I was no longer pregnant, I didn't have the energy to fight a stubborn little boy, so we had picnics in the living room for a while. And now, almost 6 months later, it is not uncommon for us to build a castle with the living room couch cushions and eat lunch there. Because I can never have lunch with the child I lost, I have picnics with him. My only child.<br />
<br />
My son hates changing clothes, but I always gave him fresh clothes after waking up - even if that meant new PJs. But those first days after I was no longer pregnant, I didn't want to change clothes myself - or shower - so we made it our little private fun routine. Because I can't have fun PJ-day-all-day with the child I lost, I stay in old PJs with him. My only child.<br />
<br />
My son loves for me to carry him, and I was close -this close!- to getting him to walk by himself. And those first days after I was no longer pregnant it hurt to carry him. I was in physical pain, but also my heart hurt. Every time that I carried him, I was reminded that I would only carry one child, because I had lost my second one. And because I can never carry the child I lost, even 6 months later I carry him. My only child.<br />
<br />
Every time I try to discipline my son and I raise my voice or I lose my temper, I remember that I will never get to discipline the child I lost. So I calm down, I lower my voice, I get down to his level and look him in the eye and try my best to explain what he did wrong. And I convince myself that I have to do this, I have to discipline and teach him - all the while thinking about the child I lost and how he or she will never have the chance to do anything wrong. Or right.<br />
<br />
So yes I spoil my child. He rides his tricycle inside the huge house we bought for our family... of three. He builds castles in our living room. He picks apples from our garden. He runs inside the house with shoes on. He watches TV past his bedtime. He sleeps in bed with us. He eats chocolate. He spends whole days in PJs (one time I even took him shopping in his PJs. It was super fun!).<br />
<br />
I spoil him because he is the only child I have. And I guess I want to give him what his baby brother or sister will never have.<br />
<br />
<br />Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-29807671321084380742016-05-12T21:21:00.001+02:002016-05-12T21:21:56.004+02:00Today, I'm going to be a bad motherI woke up not feeling well, from a night of very little sleep. The baby is sick, and my husband caught whatever the baby has, which means I am a full time nurse and nanny - and that also means that I don't have time to get sick.<br />
<br />
So, today, I'm going to be a bad mother.<br />
<br />
My baby and I will lie - vegetate, really - in bed for a long while. At some point I will carry him (amidst hugs and slimy kisses, no walking today) to the kitchen, where I will prepare an extra big bottle for him. We'll go back to bed and he will drink his bottle there, reclined against daddy's pillows and enjoying the darkness provided by the blackout. Then we will lie in bed some more. Who knows... we might even nod off for a bit.<br />
<br />
Then I will be a bad mother because when we eventually move to the living room, there will be no didactic playing or developmental activities or sensory spiel. No, not today. Today I'm going to be a bad mother and just watch Netflix with him all day - by which I mean, until he gets tired of the TV and moves on to another game. But meanwhile we will watch <i>Kung Fu Panda</i> (his favorite movie) and - about 10 minutes into the movie - we will go to the kitchen again (maybe he will walk this time, maybe) and I'll make him breakfast. But because I will be a bad mother today, we will have breakfast on the couch, watching Po learn kung fu and Master Sifu teach him. And, you know what? We might even nod off for a bit.<br />
<br />
There will be cookies and crackers throughout the day. For me. If he wants a bite or two, he may.<br />
<br />
Today, I'm going to be a bad mother because I won't force my child to sit properly in his high chair and eat his <i>penne bolognese </i>with a fork. Today I will be bad mom and just let him eat... with his hands... and squish the noodles between his fingers... and throw them on the floor... and then grab his hair... and then stuff his mouth with more noodles than fit... and then touch his shirt and pants and - yes - his hair (again). Since I'm being a bad mom today, I won't even be angry. Hey, at least he's eating, right?<br />
<br />
As I'm being a bad mom, after lunch I will just place him in the dishwasher - kidding. But I will fill the bathtub with bubbles and just let him soak in there. Soak. Splash. Play. Scream. Make a mess. I won't even roll my eyes. Not today.<br />
<br />
Then we will take a three hour nap together, just the two of us. Since I'm being a bad mother, I might as well be a bad wife and housekeeper and just not wash or clean or tidy up. Nah, I will deserve the sleep and rest.<br />
<br />
At some time in the afternoon we will go downstairs to the garden and just lie there on the grass and watch the birds fly above us. I'm going to be a bad mom today and I won't stimulate him with games and activities to further develop his senses and his brain. Today we will just enjoy nature without any reason or meaning or hidden agenda. I won't even bring toys downstairs with us - it will just be me and him and tickles and hugs and slimy kisses. And we will wait there for dad to come home...<br />
<br />
We will have leftovers and chicken nuggets and fries for dinner - because I'm a bad mom. And since I will have been a bad mother all day, his dad will just tag along and be a bad father. The baby will have a good-night bottle (which he hasn't had since he was 12 months old - like, 3 months ago...) while resting on daddy's lap, and the three of us will lie in bed together and we will fall asleep like the tired, sick family we are.<br />
<br />
And we will be bad parents and spoil our baby with all the love in the world. Maybe he won't learn much today, since I will be a bad mother. But, boy, will he be loved and hugged and kissed and tickled.<br />
<br />
That counts, right?Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-14754699649360521282015-08-18T08:48:00.001+02:002015-08-18T08:48:19.717+02:00I don't want to be Lilly Potter"You have your mother's eyes."<br />
<br />
That's a phrase Harry Potter heard way too many times in his life. #littleBabyHergett is only 7 months old and he has already heard it at least as many times as Harry by book 5. He has my eyes. He does. I love it. I really do.<br />
<br />
Until I remember what happened to Harry and to Lilly - Harry, who had his mother's eyes.<br />
<br />
You see, the moment I became a mom, every single little thing that I see or read about becomes a probable outcome for my child. Commercials about starving little children make me thing about the possibility of my own child starving, and to what extents I would personally go to try to avoid him from ever feeling even the slightest bit of hunger. I'm typing with one finger, because my right hand is holding a bottle to his mouth right now. Movies with kids not getting birthday or christmas presents, and their sad little faces and their tiny teary eyes, make me cry while crafting the most intricate list of possible gifts for a child who has just learned to roll over... like, we already know what car he will be getting when he's 18. Because I exaggerate like that.<br />
<br />
But, do you see where this is going? Lilly Potter also thought about all these things when she saw her eyes in little Harry. I don't know what kind of cable company she had up there in Godric's Hollow, but surely the magical world knew about the starving muggles. When she saw her eyes in Harry, she envisioned, just like I do, a world in which she would take care of Harry forever. A world in which she would feed him every day (even during those terrible years when toddlers become picky eaters), in which she would battle over how many presents to buy him for his birthday and for christmas. A world in which the greatest "problem" Harry should every face would be a broken heart. Lilly wanted to be there for it all, just like I want to be there for it all.<br />
<br />
But Lilly died.<br />
<br />
She died trying to protect her son, that's true. But she died. She died and she was not there for Harry. Harry, who has his mother's eyes.<br />
<br />
#littleBabyHergett has his mother's eyes. He has my eyes. And I want to be able to stare into those eyes always, every day, for the rest of my life - and I hope that my life is long enough for me to be able to feed him every time he is hungry (even at 2 and 4 am...), to see his delighted face when he gets the birthday and christmas present he so wished for, to hug him when his heart is broken for the first time. I want to be there. Through it all. For it all. And I want to laugh with him and cry with him and fear for him when he decides to go to Thailand...<br />
<br />
If it means for him to grow up and no longer have my eyes - if that means that I will be able to grow <i>old</i> and watch him grow <i>up</i>, then he can have his own eyes. Or his father's eyes. Because I don't want to be Lilly Potter. I don't want him to be my little Harry Potter. I'm happy with my little muggle, muggle-born baby.<br />
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<br />Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-24355261394063468772013-02-04T07:00:00.000+01:002013-02-04T07:00:06.366+01:00State University of Middlemarch (Part I)The first day of the fall semester has come. The State University of Middlemarch opens its doors to the hundreds of new freshmen, among them Dorothea Brooke. Dressed prudently for her age, she finds the room where her first class will take place, <i>Introduction to Literary Studies</i> -- unlike her fellow students, her face is not buried in her smartphone, because her old, trustworthy Nokia has no internet connection. She has no need for ostentatious gadgets: her phone must make and receive calls, and it does. Her younger sister is with her today (high school does not begin until next week, and as a Senior in Middlemarch High she wants to see what expects her next year); but Dodo and Celia share only their last name. Celia, though less pretty, shows more skin and is more interested in worldly possessions. While Dodo hopes to eventually graduate with an MBA, Celia aspires to get an MRS.<br />
<br />
Meeting them at the entrance of the department of languages and literature is James Chettam, Junior in the school of business. He has been after Dorothea for years, and although she gives him her full attention, she does not give him at all affection. Celia would kill for James to look at her even. James inquires as to whether all of Dorothea's scholarship paperwork has gone through properly (although she comes from a wealthy family, her great intellect got her a full scholarship), trying to make conversation. Dodo is fascinated with her new university and does not listen -- Celia kindly replies that their uncle, Arthur Brooke, has signed all the required documents and that yes, in fact, everything is fine.<br />
<br />
As Dorothea finds her lecture hall and enters without saying good-bye to her sister and James, Fred Vincy shows his sister Rosamond around campus. Fred is currently in his fifth sophomore year, not having yet declared an official major. He's gone through theology, philosophy, psychology, sociology and even physics, but has failed to find his vocation. This new semester he will try out with business administration. Rosamond, breathtakingly beautiful, has been accepted in the music department, where she will undertake voice and piano lessons. Although a very skilled artist (albeit a lack of intellectual knowledge), because her father, Walter Vincy, is the university president, she was not awarded a scholarship -- what would people think. Leaving Rosamond with the dean of the music department, he goes over to the Admissions department to say hi to Mary Garth, his love affair, his significant other. Mary, however playfully, dismisses him, but when she goes outside on her cigarette break, finds that Fred has been waiting for her all this time. They flirt, but when Fred starts getting serious and hinting that they should move in together, Mary frowns and earnestly tells him that she will never fall in a love with an eternal student; he must find his vocation, she says, before he can aspire to have a relationship with her. Mary has not had the privilege to study (some people are just not born in the right crib...), but was lucky enough to find a well-enough paying job on campus.<br />
<br />
The grand clock strikes 9 am, and all classes begin. Fred comes in late and sits in the last row, with his earplugs on, listening to Phish on iTunes, while playing Fruit Ninja on his iPhone. Rosamond has volunteered to sing first, and now stands alone on the stage, all spotlights on her, performing her <i>a cappella </i>version of "I will always love you." James has left Celia in the cafeteria while he attends to his upper level administration course. And while the world has yet to have meaning for all of them in the State University of Middlemarch, Dorothea falls in love with her lecturer, Professor Doctor Casaubon, expert in English & American literature, who teaches -- nay, recites, as if it were all poetry, the fascinating world of Grand Narratives, literary canons, discourses, representations, otherness... He has read all the books ever published and can remember every single detail about them all. Prof. Dr. Casaubon has a masters in philosophy, specializations in history and anthropology, and doctoral and post doctoral degrees in literature. He knows everything that is worth knowing, and shares his wisdom with his students, but does not waste time with idle details or mundane issues. When his point has come across, he stops talking. And his point always comes across flawlessly, like the never-halting river feeding wanting pastures.<br />
<br />
This, Dodo realizes, is the first day of the rest of her life.Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-36727363730361259932013-01-15T07:00:00.000+01:002013-01-15T07:00:07.655+01:00VerbotenI like German words because they sound powerful. There is one word that I have come to respect greatly. It sounds awesome (it kinda rolls on your tongue) and it is regal, majestic, and final: <i>Verboten</i>. It means "forbidden", but forbidden still sounds like something you can do when no one is watching. When something is <i>verboten</i> you better seriously NOT do it.<br />
<br />
Since we signed the documents which make us legally married in Germany, my husband has a "<i>Verboten</i>" one-item-list to abide by. Upon reading said one-item-list, and the subsequent Sub-clauses, you might think that I am much too influenced by the media. If so, I say to you, Perhaps. Yes. But still, my husband is mine, and is <i>verboten </i>from doing the following things.<br />
<br />
(1) Die. My husband may not die. Ever.<br />
<br />
- Sub-clause A: My husband shall not run, handle, manage, work in, above or at a crystal meth laboratory, stationary or otherwise. He may not consume, sell, distribute or handle crystal meth in any way. My husband shall also not be a DEA officer, especially not one going after crystal meth labs. Not because of moral principles, but because involvement in such laboratory, or in the chasing after such lab, may present an infringement of Rule No. 1 in the <i>Verboten </i>List.<br />
<br />
- Sub-clause B: My husband shall not preside over or belong to a motorcycle club, regardless of whose Sons they are. He shall also not be a Sheriff in a town ran by a motorcycle club. He shall also not run a strip club, or an escort service, or a porn business in said town run by a motorcycle club. Not because of issues of faithfulness, but because said business may present an infringement of Rule No. 1 in the <i>Verboten </i>List.<br />
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- Sub-clause C: My husband shall not fight against zombies, in Atlanta or anywhere else in the world. My husband shall not try to be a hero and save women who are constantly placing themselves in harm's way. He shall not try to save the world, just me. Upon a close encounter with a zombie, such that requires him to fight, he must come out victorious. If the zombie wins and infects him, although he is not "technically" dead, that will still be considered a violation of Rule No. 1 in the <i>Verboten </i>List.<br />
<br />
- Sub-clause D: My husband shall not be a lord knight trying to give the kingdom back to the rightful king. He shall take was is given to him, or not, and come back home to me, where he belongs. Should he ignore this Sub-clause and lead a rebellion, he must win. His being defeated and subsequently beheaded would break Rule No. 1 in the <i>Verboten </i>List.<br />
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- Sub-clause E: My husband shall not get caught being a mass murderer. It is preferred that he not be one, but should he find himself being unable to combat biological needs to murder guilty, bad people, he has no permission to get caught. If he gets caught, however, he must make sure to get caught in a country with no death penalty, as being placed on death row constitutes an imminent violation of Rule No. 1 in the <i>Verboten </i>List.<br />
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It is a simple list. Seems easy enough to follow.<br />
<br />
But were he to break one of these sub-clauses and therefore die, I will kill him.Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-22425797101930654132013-01-08T11:25:00.000+01:002013-01-09T18:27:46.921+01:00Weird Panty StoriesThere is a Colombian tradition, law almost, which states that in order to welcome the new year properly, one must wear yellow underwear. Preferably new. Preferably blinding-sun-yellow (as opposed to pale yellows, or ochre tones). The more absurd and ridiculous, the better (granny panties, for instance), but that is more a matter of personal preference than it is part of the law (g-strings and thongs are allowed). I can't remember the last time I didn't wear yellow panties - that is, the last time before this NYE 2013. For the first time in a million years I failed to wear yellow drawers. I could blame it on the lack of supply of yellow knickers in Germany, but I honestly did not even look. I could say that both my yellow underpants were in the dirty laundry pile, but I'm afraid my nose would grow too big. I will thus only come out with the truth and say that I forgot. And for that, I am terribly sorry and ashamed. May this year be amazing, in spite of my not having welcomed it with yellow undergarments.<br />
<br />
In trying to convince 2013 to be epic, I shall share two weird panty stories, in the hopes that the gods of the new year have some pity on me and forget my lack of keeping up with tradition. I might get extra karma points if I tell you that, albeit some artistic liberties, these are both true stories. And you probably know who they belong to.<br />
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Weird Panty Story No. 1<br />
<i>The Case of the Red Bloomers</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Since she was a little girl, A- always received a special box filled with presents for Christmas from her grandparents. Every year for the past 24 years, A- received self-baked and self-bought cookies, a small token of love and affection, perhaps a book, an envelope with a Christmas card and some cash, a pretty, christmassy container, and a secret inside it. A- seldom opened her Christmas present from her grandparents in front of people, always preferring to relish in her happiness by herself, in the privacy of her room, and then always (methodically, religiously) proceeded to call her grandparents and thank them. It was, so to speak, her very own, personal Christmas tradition. A she grew to be a teenager, the amount of cash in the envelope increased, as did her parents' curiosity regarding the contents of the christmassy container. Faced with questions for so many years, A- had carefully prepared answers that would not raise further questions: empty, she said once; more cookies, she said another time; oh, nothing important, she said. When she was 16 she was forced to open her gift box in public, in front of her siblings, parents and grandparents, but was able to hide the secret gift before anyone knew there was one. When she was 17, the package arrived mislabeled, and her sister opened A-'s instead of hers, but A- was quick and clever and managed to get the right package before the secret was uncovered. When she was 18, during the thank-you call, she actually asked her grandmother (she knew it had to be her grandmother who sent that embarrassing present, not her grandfather) to stop it, to put an end to it, to just let it go because it was no longer funny. Her grandmother answered with a loud laugh, and next year sent the infamous secret gift outside of the secret vessel, in plain sight to anyone who were near A- upon opening the box. A- opened the box, saw the contents sprawled inside, and quickly blushed, closed it, and ran away to the bathroom. When she was 20 she could not celebrate Christmas with her family, so she opened the package in the perfect solitude of her own home, but was still ashamed of the secret gift. You would think, she thought when she opened the box the Christmas of her 21st year, that by now I'd be used to it... but no. Still blushing at 22, still keeping the secret at 23... But on her 24th Christmas, I was with her. And A-, knowing of my humble, non-judgemental, polite and respectful demeanor, showed me that secret which she had been hiding for so long. Every year, her granny sent her extravagant, red, sexy britches. Because that's what we all want for Christmas, right? The knowledge that our grandma wants us to get laid. And a friend who tells the world about it.<br />
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Weird Panty Story No. 2</div>
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<i>The time she couldn't see what she was supposed to see</i></div>
<i><br /></i>
B- was never a normal girl, but was also far from being an excentric. She liked her men weird, but with a slight hint of normality to them. Weird, like musicians, but normal, like not foreign nationals involved in dubious extracurricular activities. Weird, like hipstery activists, but normal, like enrolled in a university as full-time students. Weird, like philosophers and stuff, but normal, like still choosing to wear western-style clothing. And one day she met Hans Peter von Deutschland, the germanest German ever, so normal, but with weird thoughts on the meaning of life, the universe and everything else (42), and also a superb bass player. He was the perfect normal weirdo for B-. And she fell in love. It is outside the matter whether he too fell in love or not, whether it was at first sight or not, whether it was meant to be or not - it was outside the matter because B- and Hans Peter von Deutschland, the germanest German ever, could not stand to be apart. However, in spite of the overflowing chemistry, which caused sparks that one could see even from Berlin, or Copenhagen, B- and the object of her affection had never "done it". They were always with other people, or in open, public spaces, or the mood was just not right for sex. Sometimes the music was too good to interrupt it with carnal acts; sometimes the conversation was too deep to deal with shallow bodily pleasures; sometimes the universe simply did not conspire. Until one day it did. One night, rather. B- was in a trance listening to her germanest German ever talk about talking, and the germanest German ever was in a trance talking to her and having her listening to him - and that trance led them to bed. Hans Peter von Deutschland, being the germanest German ever, took two steps back (for her to be able to get a full panoramic view of the deliciousness that was about to happen) and took off his shirt. No disappointment there, thought B-, as she made herself comfortable waiting for her one-to-one show. The germanest German ever approached her, kissed her, messed her hair, caressed her face, loved her almost - and B- let him come closer, kissed him back, messed his hair as well, and then undid his pants. One. Button. At. A. Time. The first one. The second one (no zippers - sexiest jeans ever). The third one. The fourth and last one. His one-eyed snake was about to be set free. Again, the germanest German ever took two steps back to allow B- the best possible view of his manhood trapped in briefs... only that they weren't briefs. With his pants on the ground, the germanest German ever turned around to have his two tiny, poorly-formed butt-cheeks face her, the thin thread of the back end of his camouflaged g-string lost in between the tiny flaps of muscle barely apt to be a derriere. Spiked by what he understood to be a gasp of pleasure and anxiety, Hans Peter von Deutschland, the germanest German ever, turned to face her again, this time scarcely showing the blurred silhouette of a wiener swimming in the camouflaged fabric of his banana-hamock thong. B- fell out of love, laughed and left. Or many she laughed, left and fell out of love. Or maybe she did all at the same time. That was again beyond the point: that was, and will forever remain to be, the time she saw a camouflaged banana-hamock. She hopes it will also be the last time she ever sees one. Or that, at least, the next time she is faced with a guy in camouflaged a thong, that he has the goods to fill in the stuff.Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-29706624352743242592012-08-06T09:26:00.005+02:002012-08-06T09:26:57.690+02:00First comes love, then comes marriage...I very much appreciate the English language for providing a difference between a wedding and a marriage. I was never afraid of the marriage, because I knew I was marrying <i><u>the one</u></i>. I was, however, terrified of the wedding, because planing a wedding from a different continent is no easy feat. But my mom and sister were amazing, and thanks to them, and my aunt the Wedding Planner, we had a perfect wedding.<br />
<br />
I don't quite believe in omens, but if I did, I would have to believe that a great wedding is a good omen for an awesome marriage.<br />
<br />
Take a look at how much fun we had.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Isa, bridesmaid, and Santiago, groomsman. She flew over from Australia, and he flew over from Spain.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My sister Nini, the Maid of Honor, and Tomás, the Best Man.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Nini reading, and Honey and I checking out the ship in the background...</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Our first dance, Enya's Flora's Secret.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Honey and his mom.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My dad and I.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sarita, Honey's niece, and Alejandro, my cousin.</i></td></tr>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CUgQm8SXPhs/UB9lxV_Uq6I/AAAAAAAAA_w/OcFRY9SS8zM/s1600/DSC_0121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CUgQm8SXPhs/UB9lxV_Uq6I/AAAAAAAAA_w/OcFRY9SS8zM/s320/DSC_0121.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jPDDLatRrOs/UB9l1H7mjFI/AAAAAAAAA_4/5XaOT59z_lQ/s1600/DSC_0131.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jPDDLatRrOs/UB9l1H7mjFI/AAAAAAAAA_4/5XaOT59z_lQ/s320/DSC_0131.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>We had fun the whole ceremony... maybe too much fun.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5UVgjd2czCc/UB9l5ETD7DI/AAAAAAAABAA/EajlJor5Qbg/s1600/DSC_0136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5UVgjd2czCc/UB9l5ETD7DI/AAAAAAAABAA/EajlJor5Qbg/s320/DSC_0136.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>We were amazed at how many people came to the ceremony - unusual by Colombian standards.</i></td></tr>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-o_N-WPygV2o/UB9l9orvfrI/AAAAAAAABAM/Dbg07Dc0-MQ/s1600/DSC_0141.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-o_N-WPygV2o/UB9l9orvfrI/AAAAAAAABAM/Dbg07Dc0-MQ/s320/DSC_0141.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ITVDJAglL9A/UB9mA4CCKwI/AAAAAAAABAU/9hqKKbrDxjk/s1600/DSC_0147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ITVDJAglL9A/UB9mA4CCKwI/AAAAAAAABAU/9hqKKbrDxjk/s320/DSC_0147.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Trying not to let the setting sun hurt our eyes...</i></td></tr>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M8t5aXAvc4A/UB9mEe9RTvI/AAAAAAAABAc/kHf1jlBF_94/s1600/DSC_0167.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M8t5aXAvc4A/UB9mEe9RTvI/AAAAAAAABAc/kHf1jlBF_94/s320/DSC_0167.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y6XMbwFcWw8/UB9mIWSnXDI/AAAAAAAABAk/dLfqMutWjk8/s1600/DSC_0177.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y6XMbwFcWw8/UB9mIWSnXDI/AAAAAAAABAk/dLfqMutWjk8/s320/DSC_0177.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My dad welcoming his new son into the family.</i></td></tr>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-giZoMeSV680/UB9mLtV0M8I/AAAAAAAABAs/kGh7mAF48zw/s1600/DSC_0180.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-giZoMeSV680/UB9mLtV0M8I/AAAAAAAABAs/kGh7mAF48zw/s320/DSC_0180.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-X5nqz44yJdk/UB9mPs2YydI/AAAAAAAABA4/dtY6TQ4dlK4/s1600/DSC_0195.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-X5nqz44yJdk/UB9mPs2YydI/AAAAAAAABA4/dtY6TQ4dlK4/s320/DSC_0195.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KcRD2W0a4mY/UB9mTGEw6RI/AAAAAAAABBA/htFvugYliwY/s1600/DSC_0196.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KcRD2W0a4mY/UB9mTGEw6RI/AAAAAAAABBA/htFvugYliwY/s320/DSC_0196.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Honey made the same mistake three times. I could not contain my laughter.</i></td></tr>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uGsAf5-BsHo/UB9mWZyv7mI/AAAAAAAABBI/Hm6H4Hn5GQE/s1600/DSC_0221.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uGsAf5-BsHo/UB9mWZyv7mI/AAAAAAAABBI/Hm6H4Hn5GQE/s320/DSC_0221.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VPsgO9JXImc/UB9mZ4i56tI/AAAAAAAABBQ/_E7d3oWwPe8/s1600/DSC_0269.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VPsgO9JXImc/UB9mZ4i56tI/AAAAAAAABBQ/_E7d3oWwPe8/s320/DSC_0269.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Our first kiss as a married couple!</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3uBGJk0mx_k/UB9mcxIxuXI/AAAAAAAABBc/Hx3o1m7W6oo/s1600/DSC_0289.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3uBGJk0mx_k/UB9mcxIxuXI/AAAAAAAABBc/Hx3o1m7W6oo/s320/DSC_0289.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Herr und Frau Hergett</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ql0RWKgyP2M/UB9mgcAt4qI/AAAAAAAABBk/YZXw-HzT17w/s1600/DSC_0296.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ql0RWKgyP2M/UB9mgcAt4qI/AAAAAAAABBk/YZXw-HzT17w/s320/DSC_0296.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"OMG I got married!"</i></td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_e_kIOAfszc/UB9mjZc6NwI/AAAAAAAABBs/5V5T3aL5jk0/s1600/DSC_0301.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_e_kIOAfszc/UB9mjZc6NwI/AAAAAAAABBs/5V5T3aL5jk0/s320/DSC_0301.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-W2UKF2vd9eY/UB9mmwLHxwI/AAAAAAAABB0/0puePgMmuo4/s1600/DSC_0314.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-W2UKF2vd9eY/UB9mmwLHxwI/AAAAAAAABB0/0puePgMmuo4/s320/DSC_0314.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iMjDhMDRfdE/UB9mqq9u5OI/AAAAAAAABCA/iW0did5-UzI/s1600/DSC_0316.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iMjDhMDRfdE/UB9mqq9u5OI/AAAAAAAABCA/iW0did5-UzI/s320/DSC_0316.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Our court: Santiago, Isa, us, Nini, Tomás, and my cousin Mariano.</i></td></tr>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zC8mMg5g6Q4/UB9muIXqXBI/AAAAAAAABCI/QXw3zN9B488/s1600/DSC_0322.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zC8mMg5g6Q4/UB9muIXqXBI/AAAAAAAABCI/QXw3zN9B488/s320/DSC_0322.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-txgCSNp5DbU/UB9m192vNJI/AAAAAAAABCY/8gk_v3o5k9o/s1600/DSC_0335.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-txgCSNp5DbU/UB9m192vNJI/AAAAAAAABCY/8gk_v3o5k9o/s320/DSC_0335.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Isa, us, and her sister Katrin, who flew over from Kenya. </i></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HIsDCSU3H7w/UB9m6IrRNSI/AAAAAAAABCk/SbqDKEDbZ2U/s1600/DSC_0342.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HIsDCSU3H7w/UB9m6IrRNSI/AAAAAAAABCk/SbqDKEDbZ2U/s320/DSC_0342.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My uncle (and godfather) and his family.</i></td></tr>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5vobS3h3Cd8/UB9m-FBcKVI/AAAAAAAABCs/MjhQMajtNM0/s1600/DSC_0351.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5vobS3h3Cd8/UB9m-FBcKVI/AAAAAAAABCs/MjhQMajtNM0/s320/DSC_0351.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dYvaN_mY2Zc/UB9nBiuZ0qI/AAAAAAAABC0/QQ_YxrC0G9c/s1600/DSC_0368.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dYvaN_mY2Zc/UB9nBiuZ0qI/AAAAAAAABC0/QQ_YxrC0G9c/s320/DSC_0368.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Honey's sister, her husband and their daughter, our flower girl.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z-cN1RztILk/UB9nFovzYHI/AAAAAAAABC8/sHpAGnhEPts/s1600/DSC_0373.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z-cN1RztILk/UB9nFovzYHI/AAAAAAAABC8/sHpAGnhEPts/s320/DSC_0373.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>With my parents.</i></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-reA3Puls4BU/UB9nJnk5rtI/AAAAAAAABDI/xF4-vbBrD0k/s1600/DSC_0378.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-reA3Puls4BU/UB9nJnk5rtI/AAAAAAAABDI/xF4-vbBrD0k/s320/DSC_0378.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>With both our parents.</i></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kAuEBlOeuBA/UB9nNlSlBjI/AAAAAAAABDQ/d9P65jniztA/s1600/DSC_0380.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kAuEBlOeuBA/UB9nNlSlBjI/AAAAAAAABDQ/d9P65jniztA/s320/DSC_0380.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My parents were delighted!</i></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sD2eCWW-qZ4/UB9nRzynzlI/AAAAAAAABDY/NZhxftBZukU/s1600/DSC_0384.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sD2eCWW-qZ4/UB9nRzynzlI/AAAAAAAABDY/NZhxftBZukU/s320/DSC_0384.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>With Honey's parents.</i></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i1kKlAvRkoU/UB9nWljYEnI/AAAAAAAABDk/4x-0q62N4js/s1600/DSC_0385.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i1kKlAvRkoU/UB9nWljYEnI/AAAAAAAABDk/4x-0q62N4js/s320/DSC_0385.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Honey's family.</i></td></tr>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5lsWGU0G2xs/UB9nfJQcvtI/AAAAAAAABD0/po57qoRErx4/s1600/DSC_0462.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5lsWGU0G2xs/UB9nfJQcvtI/AAAAAAAABD0/po57qoRErx4/s320/DSC_0462.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PErVMI2YSHI/UB9njWKAWjI/AAAAAAAABD8/HPo8i05nmA4/s1600/DSC_0557.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PErVMI2YSHI/UB9njWKAWjI/AAAAAAAABD8/HPo8i05nmA4/s320/DSC_0557.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Alejandro, my cousin, wanted to make sure the cake-cutting process was flawless.</i></td></tr>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dIGZbo_-7ps/UB9nnAr0mQI/AAAAAAAABEE/peEE5zABZd8/s1600/DSC_0563.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dIGZbo_-7ps/UB9nnAr0mQI/AAAAAAAABEE/peEE5zABZd8/s320/DSC_0563.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PJ-SSXU3Xx4/UB9nraF0zZI/AAAAAAAABEQ/3lG0-rSY4GE/s1600/DSC_0573.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PJ-SSXU3Xx4/UB9nraF0zZI/AAAAAAAABEQ/3lG0-rSY4GE/s320/DSC_0573.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dPco-62oV2Y/UB9nvjwbfMI/AAAAAAAABEY/_6QbwmC8m6A/s1600/DSC_0630.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dPco-62oV2Y/UB9nvjwbfMI/AAAAAAAABEY/_6QbwmC8m6A/s320/DSC_0630.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Honey was searching in the wrong place for the garter...</i></td></tr>
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<br />Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-3749001046032054742012-07-23T07:00:00.000+02:002012-07-23T07:00:13.680+02:00The Other Side of the StoryI don't know about you, but I have always heard only one side of the wedding story: the bride's. She is always so happy to have been asked to join the group of women who have found meaning in life only because they switched from Miss to Mrs. She is always thrilled to wear a huge, puffy, white dress. She is always delighted to be the center of attention during the planning and the day of. She is always a bridezilla. She is always crazy, insane, unbearable. She is always the one who tells the story.<br />
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Even when my uncle got married - even then I only got her side of the story. My friends who have gotten married are all the brides. Even when I am acquainted with the groom, I still always only hear her side of the story.<br />
<br />
For the first time I have been close to the groom. <i>Very close to the groom</i>, if you know what I mean. We were recently skyping (he was in Colombia while I was still in Germany) and he kind of failed to properly hang up on me, and I overheard a conversation between him and his best friend. His friend, also the Best Man, asked,<br />
<br />
"Are you sure about this, man?"<br />
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"Of course I am," Honey answered. "Why would I not want to wake up every single day for the rest of my life with the woman who makes me happy?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah, but the same girl... for ever!?"<br />
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"I will be lucky if I am with the same girl for the rest of my life."<br />
<br />
He feels lucky. Not trapped, not punished, not forced, not doomed. He feels lucky.<br />
<br />
He participated in the mayor decisions (venue, colors, placements, invitations, cake - OMG the cake...) willingly. He asked questions, gave his opinion. He got excited about choosing his own attire and made sure that it was special. He counted the days left for the wedding. He told everyone he was getting married (like a girl...). He was excited about officially changing his status from single man to married man. He made sure the rings were perfect.<br />
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The other side of the story, ladies, is that he enjoys it as much as you do. If you have chosen the right man, then he will be as giddy as you.<br />
<br />
I got married this past weekend to a man who enjoyed and suffered every single minute of the wedding planning with me. I am very pleased that when I heard the other side of the story for the first time it was as magical as my side of the story was.Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-11952913032413300982012-07-16T07:00:00.000+02:002012-07-16T07:00:01.267+02:00I found a way to get rid of my obsessionI am obsessed with birthdays. I love that there is one day every year where you can feel like a princess and it's socially acceptable. It is, in fact, somewhat encouraged. I am especially obsessed with my birthday - but not because of the princess thing (I am a princess every day, Honey tells me so). I am obsessed with my birthday because I keep turning older. And older. And older. I tried to stop the age thing, I tried to turn 23 for five years in a row. I even moved to three different continents to make it work! But no. Someone always knew the truth... and was more than happy to expose that truth. I did manage to confuse many, many people. But in heart - nay, worse: in my mind I knew it not to be true.<br />
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I was actually 24. Or 25. Or 26 (I actually had a blast in Bogotá that day).<br />
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I have a few very worthwhile reasons for disliking my real age, and some extremely lame ones as well. After Thailand, when my life took a stand-still in a very boring point and place, I was ashamed of being older and older and older and accomplishing nothing and nothing and nothing. I looked forward to my biweekly paycheck, looked forward to my weekly beer and wine get-together, looked forward to my daily commute back home. At least I found the most amazing boyfriend in the universe, so that kinda made my life not miserable - just mediocre.<br />
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A few weeks before I turned 27 (23-for-the-fifth-time), this happened at my cousin's wedding:<br />
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This meant that my life was about to change. The thing is, fate is not always clear or precise... or fast. Fate takes its time and instead of going directly towards the desired goal, takes twists and turns and goes back and forth.<br />
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I turned 27 - had a blast in Madrid.<br />
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I turned 28 - had a blast in Kiel.<br />
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I just turned 29. I celebrated in Bogotá again, but you did not hear (nor read) me bitchin' and moanin' about it. That is because I found a way to get rid of my obsession with age and birthdays and being old. The reason?<br />
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Honey proposed - and I said yes (if you want to catch up on the whole story, <a href="http://natalya-and-gustavo.yolasite.com/">click here</a>). And a wedding totally trumps a lame little birthday. I am to marry Honey in less than a week, which is why I have forgotten my birthday.<br />
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I will continue to get old. I will have more and more wrinkles. But for the first time (after this coming Saturday) I will not grow old alone, I will not have wrinkles by myself. Honey will be with me - from now until forever. I got rid of my obsession with age and getting older because now age and getting older signify maturity and improvement. I will be less like an old coke and more like an old wine.<br />
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So next year I'm turning 30. The past 5 birthdays with Honey have been awesome. I have great expectations, and no obsessions, about the 30th, and all those to come.<br />
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<br />Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-42750592799134771622012-07-09T07:00:00.000+02:002012-07-09T07:00:09.079+02:00Going back homeI'm flying home next weekend. <i>Home</i>. What does that mean, anyway? If home is where you work, then my home is intangible because I work online. If home is where you study, then my home is Kiel, Germany. If home is where your friends are, then my home is the world, because my friends are spread all over the place. If home is where your heart is, currently my home is Sopó, because Honey is there. If home is where your family is, then my home is Barranquilla.<br />
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I am flying to that home. I am flying to Barranquilla. And I have mixed feelings about that. I am delighted to go home, but I don't want to stay. I am excited to go home, but I don't want to go. I am afraid to go back home, but I can't stay here alone. <i>Home</i>. Such a complicated concept...<br />
<br />
Going back this time will be weird. It will be a first-time-ever kind of experience because, for the first time ever I will stay in a hotel and not in my parents' home. Not in my bed. Not in my room, which is now the guest room. It will be weird to have room service not delivered by Carmen. It will be awkward to greet the bellboy and not Fadul or Víctor or Pompy. It will be sad to be greeted as Miss Delgado and not as Naty.<br />
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However, also for the first time I will be married when I arrive in Barranquilla - so technically I won't even be Miss Delgado. I will be Mrs. Hergett. I will be a wife, a married woman, a half of a whole. I have never experienced Barranquilla like that. I won't be my father's daughter, I will be my husband's wife.<br />
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Ah, how I love/hate this identity crisis.<br />
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I'm flying home next weekend. Barranquilla will always be my home. Just like Augusta continues to be my home. Just like Kiel has become my home. It should be nice, though, always feeling at home. I will go home to Barranquilla and then I will return home to Kiel. I kinda like the ring of that...Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-78329192278541798162012-07-02T07:00:00.000+02:002012-07-02T07:00:10.646+02:00Find someone who makes you laughWhen I was 16, I had a boyfriend. One of my mom's friends, very close to the family and for whom I cared very much, once asked me (in front of my mom) if said boyfriend made me laugh. In trying to be bold and mature and, well, in trying to surprise and scare my mom, I said, "Well, yeah, kinda. But most importantly, he is awesome in bed!" I was lying, in case anyone is freaking out. My mom was (and probably is again now) freaking out. Her friend simply said, "Whatever, that is not important. What is important is that he makes you laugh. That is the most important thing: to be with someone who makes you laugh."<br />
<br />
This is perhaps the best piece of advice I have ever been given. <i>Be with someone who makes you laugh</i>. Because, the thing is, this not only refers to sex partners. This is true for life, and for everyone <i>in </i>your life. In my life. In counting my friends, I realize we laugh a lot together. Bear in mind that most my friends are English majors, like me; so our jokes go from doing false gender-role readings to applying the wrong approach to the wrong text - OMG HILARIOUS! But also with my non-English major friends (those who have studied Film, those who have studied Biology, even those who have studied History) - we have fun because we laugh.<br />
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Laughter is awesome. Laughter is what makes distances disappear, it makes problems fade (if only for a while), it makes drinks taste better and it makes food less fatty. Laughter is the gateway to world peace. Think of the most fun you've had, think of your happy memories: in all of those, you are laughing. Probably until your tummy hurts, or until you pee a little, or until liquids come out of your nose (been there, done that - all three). Laughter makes awkwardness awesomeness.<br />
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Now, I don't claim to be in possession of the absolute truth or anything like that. But I will share the wisdom my mom's friend shared with me almost 15 years ago: find someone who makes you laugh.<br />
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I am about to marry the man who makes me laugh. The man who laughs at my jokes, even though I have no good jokes (there were two muffins sitting in an over. One muffin says to the other, "Man! It's hot in here!" and the other muffin replies, "OMG a talking muffin!!!"). He laughs when he has to eat the food I've burnt for him - um, oops. I totally meant <i>cooked</i> - cooked for him. He laughs when I forget to do laundry for so long that he has to wear yesterday's boxer shorts. He puts his whole world on hold to make me laugh. And even when my heart is a little broken, he picks up the pieces and finds a way to make me laugh. He laughs when I am poor and unemployed, and he laughs when I have so much work to do that I can hardly pause to go pee.<br />
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He makes me laugh. We laugh together. I have found him, and he has found me. Hopefully we will spend the rest of our lives finding each other every single day.<br />
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And hopefully it will be such an amazing adventure, that "the rest of our lives" will not seem like enough time.<br />
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I have found someone who makes me laugh. Have you?Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-26638071898245773822012-05-14T07:00:00.000+02:002013-05-16T09:31:29.706+02:00What happens when you just don't agree?I realize I'm not married yet, and that I am asking for advice well in advance of my real needs. However, last week we experienced a situation that neither of us (my fiancé and I) knew how to handle. Since I do not want to get into the personal details of our lives (I promised Honey I would never do that), I will present the situation as an analogy...<br />
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We happened to find ourselves, one day, without toothpaste at home. After all the normal bickering (Honey: <i>How can you NOT notice that we are running out of toothpaste? You know all you have to do is ask for money and I will give it to you so that you can go buy toothpaste!</i> Me: <i>How do YOU not notice? You brush your teeth daily, just as much as I do, and since you have the money YOU could have gone and bought it...</i>), we decided to go together to buy the toothpaste. We quickly kissed and made up because it is stupid to quarrel over toothpaste, and it was neither of our faults. I mean, nobody wants to wake up on a Monday morning and realize that, aside from the fact that the weekend is over, there is no freaking toothpaste. No one does that on purpose. And we both should have noticed, and we both should have said something, and we both should have offered to buy it (and pay for it). So, we both made a mistake, we laughed, and enjoyed our shopping...<br />
<br />
...until we reached the toothpaste area.<br />
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I suggested the cheap, less-than-a-Euro toothpaste. He requested Colgate. I said that was silly: the cheapy one has the same components (I actually have no idea if they do, I was just trying to make an argument to support my claim) and cost one whole Euro less. He said that Colgate was clinically tested, and that 9 out of 10 dentists recommend it (he was just reciting one of the latest ads). I said it was silly and pointless to waste "so much money" (come one, it is 85 cents versus 1,79!!) on the same crap as the cheapy stuff. He said the cheapy stuff did not make his mouth feel minty and fresh. I said he was stupid. He said I was stupid and had bad breath. I said <i>he </i>had badder breath (because I am mature like that). He said he would buy his own toothpaste, which I would <u>not</u> be allowed to use, and he would buy me whatever product I chose - and he promised not to use it. I said that was ridiculous, that we were just buying one, and that it would be the in-between brand (not the expensive Colgate, but also not the cheap knockoff). He said no, and he put his foot down. And I said yes, and put my foot down.<br />
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We left without buying anything (had to rely on gum for the rest of the day) and did not talk to each other until the next morning.<br />
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**Please let me remind you that the above story was just an analogy of the real situation... our dental hygiene is perfect and no, we do not quarrel about silly things like toothpaste. As the woman in charge of the household, I buy whatever I choose to buy with his money - and it <i>always </i>is Colgate.**<br />
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The issue is, what happens when you just don't agree? What happens if you both find yourselves in a situation where neither one nor the other are willing to give in? And although the above situation was just make-believe, the real Apple of Discord was just as pointless. We were not discussing children nor death wishes, nor country of residence - things that actually matter. Our discussion was as pointless and toothpaste brands. But neither of us would back down. We both believed that our "toothpaste brand" was the best for the situation. We both believe that the other's "toothpaste" was not only not the best choice, but rather the <i>absolutely wrong </i>choice to make. Our arguments were based on principle, on morals, on values, on experience. Both arguments were valid (of course mine was more valid) and both arguments were well supported. Both arguments made sense, and both arguments were sound and based on good facts.<br />
<br />
But we both felt strongly enough about our toothpaste that we felt it necessary to make a stand and not back down. We felt it necessary to "fight" about it.<br />
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Of course all is well now. We settled on buying the normal Colgate, which costs 1 Euro. It is still the Colgate brand, which pleased him, but it does not have all the minty-crystal-whitening crap that not only does not work but also costs more. Everything worked out and now we are back to our pre-wedding happily ever after.<br />
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However, I know this will happen again. It won't happen over toothpaste, but it might happen over juice, or bed sheets, or beer. It will happen again, and I have to ask, all of you successfully married couples, what happens when you just do not agree with your partner?<br />
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Do you let it go and take his/her side just to bring back the peace?<br />
Do you stick to your principles and to your argument until hell freezes over?<br />
Do you just not talk about it in order to avoid a quarrel?<br />
Do you write a blog about it?<br />
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This is not a rhetorical question: I seriously want to know, what happens when you just don't agree?Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-7890784535800853212012-05-07T07:00:00.000+02:002012-05-07T07:00:02.841+02:00Translation is transmissionMichel Foucault said that <i>he who holds the language holds the power</i> -- and that is why translators are the people who are changing the world, and have been doing so for centuries. Millennia, even. It is not enough to posses knowledge, it is important to be able to transmit that knowledge, to share it, to teach it. The problem is that not everybody will be able to understand this knowledge, unless they, too, are in possession of the skills necessary to understand.<br />
<br />
Translation is not just a matter of identifying the word in the source language and replacing it with the equivalent in the target language. If that were so, we translators (and I dare now include interpreters as well) would have proven to be obsolete in the late 1980s. Our success, our importance to the world, even, is the task that we perform, the impossible that we achieve: we are able to find the perfect oxymoronic juxtaposition of <i>faithfulness</i> and <i>beauty</i> in a target language from a source language.<br />
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Yes, we are geniuses. And I salute us. I salute my colleagues who have studied and learned and gone beyond the minimum requirements and survived the poor payments and bad treatments. I salute my friends who hold the power granted by polyglotism and suffer due to calloused fingertips and soar throats. Yes, my friends -- we are geniuses, and we, while holding the language, hold the power.<br />
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I invite you to read what my friend and colleague Rachel Eadie (English, Spanish, Italian) has published in the <i>The Prisma</i>, a multicultural UK newspaper:<br />
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<a href="http://www.theprisma.co.uk/2012/04/29/the-new-spanish-criminal-code-a-step-backwards-for-freedom/">The New Spanish Criminal</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theprisma.co.uk/2012/04/28/photography-exhibition-featuring-sex-workers/">Photography Exhibition featuring Sex Workers</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theprisma.co.uk/2012/04/22/alighiero-boetti-at-the-tate-modern/">Alighiero Boetti at the Tate Modern</a><br />
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If you are in need a professional translation, please do not hesitate to contact me. I am sure I will be able to introduce you to a very talented translator in your area. <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Should your area be Germany or Colombia, I am your go-to person. </span></i>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-42414427691663658572012-04-16T07:00:00.000+02:002012-04-16T07:00:06.634+02:00Theoretical SituationSay you have a friend. A very dear friend. And one day, he tells you he met someone. And you're all, like, <i>OMG that is so awesome! </i>You encourage your friend and, in trying to show your support for the relationship, establish some kind of virtual connection with the new girl he's seeing. It's all going great: you like her, she likes you, your friend likes her, she likes your friend, you and your friend like each other - it is like the mecca of friendship/love relationships.<br />
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And then you decide to hold a birthday party. Only this is a very special birthday party, because it's one of those milestone thingies and you will hold a huge party -- not huge enough that every single contact on your facebook friends list is invited, but huge enough that you are spending all of your savings in said party. Family from around the world is flying in... like, OMG WOW.<br />
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Of course your friend is invited -- he is your very best friend, after all. And since you like the girl he is dating, and they are still dating, and she likes you and likes him and it is all a freaking like-fest in this relationship, you invite the girl as well. Only to find out, a couple of weeks after announcing said invitation, that the girl is actually not "in a relationship" with him. Your friend misunderstood her (yeah, because apparently girls have way too many meanings for <i>I love you</i> and stuff) and whereas <u>he</u> thought they were dating (and so informed you), <u>she</u> thought they were just having fun hanging out (doing God-knows-what-when-where-and-how-many-times...).<br />
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Your friend hates the witch-with-capital-B, which in turn obviously makes you hate the witch-with-capital-B. But your friend, the idiot that he is, tells you that you should not hate her, because she genuinely likes you, and she is really cool, and that, in retrospect, he did kinda exaggerate things a bit.<br />
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If you are any kind of person with feelings now you hate the witch-with-capital-B even more, because not only did the tramp break your friend's heart, she also destroyed his self-confidence.<br />
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But -- and here is a BIIIG but... she <i>really </i>is cool (which makes you hate her more!!), and she really does like you. And, in her eyes, the virtual "friendship" that she created with you has nothing to do with your friend. And you two do have a lot in common! And you like her! And she's cool! And she broke your best friend's heart and crushed his self-confidence.<br />
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So, in this theoretical situation... what would YOU do?Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-36339626028217767412012-04-09T19:46:00.000+02:002012-04-09T19:46:12.881+02:00of cows and romanceAs I was lying in bed earlier today, devouring my third easter chocolate bar, I said to Honey, "If it doesn't rain, I will ride my bike to class tomorrow." Honey made a face, and I --my mouth filled with chocolate, teeth brown and all-- said to him, "I need to have some kind of movement, Honey, some kind of exercise. I feel like a cow!"<br />
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He stopped what he was doing. I believe the world stopped spinning for a split second. As he was about to make some mean, evil comment about the fact that I am, <i>in fact</i>, a cow, I yelled at him to stop - to shut up. In the midst of my screaming I even spit a little chocolate onto his back.<br />
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"Don't you dare say a word," I shrieked, "don't you dare agree with me that I am a cow. Choose your words wisely, Honey, because the wedding can still be cancelled."<br />
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He looked at me with the loveliest puppy-dog eyes, the ones he uses when he knows he messed up. He looked at me with those eyes and said, "I don't care that you are a cow, because if you are a cow then that makes you my sexy cow. And I love you in spite of you being a cow."<br />
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I should cancel the wedding because he ignored my orders and called me a cow. To my face. But then again, how can I not be happy to marry someone who loves me in spite of my being a cow?Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-35724383133180007522012-03-19T07:00:00.000+01:002012-03-19T07:00:07.466+01:00"Let the Rhythm take control"My cousin, the dancer, was featured along with her husband in the local magazine, The Colchester Circle.<br />
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I wrote the article featuring them. Now they are both famous in Colchester, and I am an international freeelance writer for magazines. Well, I did it once... but once is enough to brag, right?<br />
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Read the whole article <a href="http://issuu.com/circlehousepublishing/docs/thecolchestercirclemarchapril2012#print">here</a>. Go to page 36 to read my article about them.<br />
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Congratulations to Eddy and Goyo, and to The Latin Rhythm.<br />
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By the way, if you happen to be in Colchester, check out their salsa lessons. The will surely find your right foot, if you happen to suffer from the all-too-common "two left feet" syndrome.<br />
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http://www.latinrhythm.co.uk/<br />
info@latinrhythm.co.ukNathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8255026173288751833.post-7868075279124773282012-03-12T07:00:00.000+01:002012-03-12T07:00:02.711+01:00I will help make Kony famousIf you have a half an hour to spare, stop reading and watch this video:<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4MnpzG5Sqc">Make Kony Famous 2012</a><br />
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If you don't have 30 minutes free, don't watch the video but continue reading. Do save this link, though, because you should find the 30 minutes. Really. (I am talking to you, Mami, you who are reading this and have no time for anything other than PEP and my wedding... find the time!)<br />
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When we are small, young and naïve, we are taught that we can change the world. That ONE person can make a difference. That we, every single one of us, can help. But then, unfortunately, we grow up. We grow up and we start to realize that no, <i>one </i>voice does not count; you need a million, at least. And no, <i>your </i>vote does not make a difference; you need half-plus-one in order to make a difference. And unless you are a philanthropist and have millions and millions of dollars, or even better, euros, you cannot change the world. And the sad thing is that you don't only <i>realize </i>it, you <i>live </i>it, you experience it in your own flesh and blood. And then you become jaded and bitter and you look after yourself and no one else.<br />
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But, dude, it's 2012. The 11th year of the XXI century. It's the age of communication, the age in which (plagiarizing a heck of a lot of people and having no hard evidence to support my plagiarized quote) there are more people on facebook than there were citizens in the world 200 years ago. That number may or may not be real - but that is not the point. The point is that we are always connected, always communicated (even if virtually and not physically). We are on-line.<br />
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And you know what? When we are on-line, we <i>can </i>make a difference.<br />
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Like now. There is a terrorist called Joseph Kony, who is the leader of the guerrilla group LRA (Lord's Resistance Army), in Uganda. He kidnaps children; the boys are forced to become soldiers, the girls are forced to become sex slaves. It is terrible. And sad.<br />
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And you think, "Wow, that's terrible. And sad." And say nothing else because you are comfortably sitting in your bed, or your office, or on the bus or train on your way home reading this on your BB or iPhone or Android or whatever. And you get to do this because you are lucky. Just like me, you are lucky. You are lucky that you were not born in Uganda, and that you were not kidnapped as a child, and that you were not forced to become a sex slave or a mercenary. You are lucky that you can read, that (like me) you speak more than one language, that you have a voice.<br />
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And that your voice counts.<br />
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I am not asking for your money - of course, if you have it, donate! But that is not the ultimate goal of my post. I am not even asking for your time, because maybe, like me, you are tied down to your city and cannot relocate to help with physical actions. I am asking for your online presence.<br />
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And that, my dear reader, you cannot deny me. Or anyone. Especially, you cannot deny your online presence to the people of Uganda. To the people of the world.<br />
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What do you have to do? Watch the video. Here is the link again, just in case you don't feel like scrolling back up: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4MnpzG5Sqc">Make Kony Famous 2012</a><br />
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Watch the video and share the video. Tweet it, tumblr it, google+ it, facebook it, blog it, post it, pin it, BBM it, email it... just do it (that is in no way an infringement of Nike copyright or trademark).<br />
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YOU can do something. One person does make a difference. If we all help to make Kony (in)famous, we won't have to wait too much longer until others are made (in)famous and have them pay for their sins. I will help make Kony famous in 2012 because I want for the guerrilleros of FARC and ELN in Colombia to also be brought to justice. If it can happen in Uganda, it can happen in Colombia.<br />
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And we can help to make it happen. All you have to do is share. Easy, right?<br />
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I can make a difference. I am joining in with the world's rage against these evil people. I am helping make Kony famous.Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12845550295427278487noreply@blogger.com0