I once was a writer...

During this peculiar time*, we are all faced with challenges. *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.  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 a...

For 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. I always had something to say. (Whether it was worth reading or not, that was always up to YOU.) 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... ...and then one day, I had nothing to say. 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 m...

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. Becaus...

Yes, I spoil my child. I'm perfectly conscious of what I'm doing, and I'm not sure I want to stop. 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. We had so many plans. And then one day, I wasn't pregnant anymore. As quickly as it came, it went away. And all our plans? Well. They changed. 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 g...

I 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. So, today, I'm going to be a bad mother. 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. 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 mea...

"You have your mother's eyes." 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. Until I remember what happened to Harry and to Lilly - Harry, who had his mother's eyes. 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 gi...

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, Introduction to Literary Studies  -- 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. Meeting them at the entrance of the department of languages and literature is James Chettam, Junior ...