Me at the wedding of my daughter. Many, many years from now.
Damn funny. Do you have an uncle or father like this? My deepest, deepest sympathy.
Note: This is an actual photo of Scienkoptic…
dad
Archived Posts from this Category
October 24, 2008
Funny picture! (or Is this me one day?)
Posted by Henk Campher under dad, funny, humor, jokes, pictures | Tags: funny, humor, picture |[6] Comments
October 5, 2008
Little hands
Posted by Henk Campher under dad, daughters, family, kids, life, love | Tags: caring, daughter, family, kids, life, love |[12] Comments
My youngest daughter is a wild one. She loves to just run around. Sing out loud. Throw out all the toys on the floor and play. Climb the monkey bars. Slide down head first. Just do what slightly wilder kids do. Be wild. Be kids. Oh, and not concentrate on what you have to say if it is in the way of her jumping of the edge hoping you will catch her. Yeah, she is a wild one.
She is not naughty. She doesn’t break things or hit kids or throw tantrums. She’s just a little girl who likes to have fun and laugh. Slightly wild, but we only pick up on it because her older sister so different. that in is Miss Mellow.
Our older daughter is more level headed. Everything must be perfect. Her room is the tidiest room in the house. And we don’t touch it. I irritate her by jumping on her bed. (Yes, we all wonder who are the real kids in our house.) She is the hard working student and it shows in her school results. She just loves school. She dances 5 days a week and plays the saxophone. She plays with one toy at a time while her sister throws all the toys on the floor. And she is a deeply caring kid who always have time for others. Always the one who hold their hands or sits with the new kid in class.
They are different kids. But they are also the same.
The little one went apple picking last Monday. It was a school trip. A few mothers were asked to go with and help with the kids. We gave the little on “the speech” before she left. “Listen to what you minder have to say. Be polite and be nice. Don’t just run off screaming like a mad thing.” She nodded her head and said, “Yes daddy. Yes mommy.” I wasn’t so sure she listened. She was about to jump off the chair while I was talking…
They were in groups of three. One minder for three kids. We just hoped she will listen and not drive the poor woman crazy. And off they went…
Afterward the woman who looked after our little one came up to my wife to “debrief” her. (“Oh what has she done?” must have crossed my wife’s mind at the time.) And the woman said…
“Your daughter is the nicest, sweetest and most caring kid I have ever met”.
Apparently the little one walked next to her the whole time. And even though she is the youngest in her class, she helped other kids up the ladders, helped them pick apples, made way for them to go first and looked after anyone who looked unhappy or who hurt a knee or elbow. The woman said she was just the perfect little girl and more. And that she went up to a little girl who was missing her mommy and said, “Don’t worry. Your mommy will be waiting for you when we get back. She loves you very much. Now lets have some fun and pick some apples”. She was the little girl who cared. Not once did the minder even have to think about our little one. She was always around and always polite.
She didn’t jump off the edge once. Most likely spoke the hind leg off a donkey, but still. She was the perfect little girl and so much more.
And when they got back to school she went up to the woman and gave her a big hug to say good bye. No one asked. No one told her to do it. She just went up to the woman and said, “I am going to miss you”. The lady said she felt like crying. Because of this sweet little girl.
She does that often. Give hugs to people. If we know them or speak to them she trusts them and want to give them a hug. We think it is a good thing that she does it without checking with us first or us telling her to do so. Love and caring should come naturally. Ubuntu - It’s like breathing… Remember?
When I got home she ran up to me to tell me about the apple picking. Her little bag with 7 or 8 apples. But she didn’t just show me. She showed me the apple she got for me. And the apple she got for mom. And the apple she got for her sister. “You can eat it at work when you get hungry daddy.”
The school teacher told my wife that the little one is just the most caring little girl in class. Always there to sit with someone who is crying. She can be heard saying, “Don’t worry, your mommy and daddy loves you very much and they will come to fetch you after school.” She sits with the kids who feel lonely or just a little sad. And the little kid who fell while playing. She looks after them. The youngest of them all.
My wife wasn’t feeling to well these last few days. But I had to go to work. And then take the oldest one to the library to stock up on some books. Guess what the little one did? She stayed in the room with her mom and read her stories. And gave her wet facecloths to wipe her face with. She looked after her mom while there was no one else in the house. She’s five.
A few nights ago we were watching the news. And they had this story on of this family who is living out of their car. A father, mother and 3 little boys. The husband lost his job because of the construction industry being in a slump. His wife worked as a waitress and didn’t earn enough for them to survive. They lost their home and their possessons. So they packed the car and drove to San Diego. Hoping for a better life. And they are still waiting. Looking for jobs during the day. Their kids get a meal at the school they attend. The little one goes to daycare for kids of homeless parents. They wash and brush their teeth at the toilets on the beach. She cooks on a little camping stove at night. They sleep in their car because the centre that take in homeless families don’t have any space open at the moment. But they can catch a warm shower there. The car is a bit cramped at the back, but at least the boys are small… And during the day they hunt for jobs and pawn their wedding rings to feed the kids.
My wife started crying. I didn’t notice it at first. But I saw my little one get up and walk over to her and ask, “Are you okay mommy?” She lied, “I’m fine my girl. I’ll be fine.” We are never fine when we know this. And my wife looked at me and said, “These are not lazy people. They haven’t done anything where they blew their chances. Or blew their money. These are decent, decent people. They are trying everything to stay on the right path. Just look at those three little boys they have. They are a decent family. How can people just stand by and look on and do nothing?”
We got up and were standing in the kitchen talking about it when our little one came in. She had some plastic flowers in her one hand and her favourite toy in her other hand. She held it out to my wife.
“Here mom. I love you. This will make you feel better.”
She kept on coming back to check if my wife is okay. No one asked. No one encouraged her. But she does this often. Giving us flowers when we look sad or down. Giving us a hug and a kiss when it looks like we are not smiling enough or really smiling at all. Giving us plastic flowers and toys.
Yeah. She’s a wild one all right.
September 26, 2008
Roots Revisited (while on the coffee break)
Posted by Henk Campher under activist, activists, Africa, African, Afrikaner, Apartheid, bigotry, blog, blogging, children, culture, dad, family, government, hate, hope, I am because you are, kids, life, live, love, men, mom, mother, parents, people, personal, politics, race, racism, religion, rugby, school, schools, son, South Africa, sport, street, ubuntu, Uncategorized, University of Stellenbosch | Tags: Accidental Activist, Afrikaner, Afrikaners, Angry African, Apartheid, beliefs, bigot, black, change, choices, church, dad, family, growing up, history, life, live, living, past, racism, racist, religion, rugby, school, South Africa, sport, ubuntu, university, white |[8] Comments
I thought it might be a good thing to look back at why I started blogging. You know, while I’m taking a coffee break. I first started writing as An Accidental Activist. Can’t get away from all the “A’s” I guess. It was meant to be about stories of my life and how I got here. I started writing about my past to leave something for my kids to read one day. For them to see what their dad was about. My past and my journey. Hope they will still believe their old man was okay. But I started ranting and raving about issues that pissed me off and someone said, “You are a real angry African on the loose”. (Thanks Cheryl.) And that’s how I got the name Angry African. Not as romantic or inspirational as what people might think. But it flowed onwards from there.
I wrote a few pieces under An Accidental Activist. Like I said, mostly about my life so far. I think it is time to look back at the first post I ever wrote. Just in case you missed it. I might edit it a bit this time. Add something or take something away. Or just rewrite pieces. Or nothing! But unlikely I’ll do nothing! I’ll see where it takes me. (Note: I did rewrite loads and added quite a bit!)
This was my first post ever. Introducing myself. Now reintroducing myself. Then called “An Accidental Activist: I wasn’t born to be an activist“. Now revisited…
Roots Revisited: I wasn’t born to be an Angry african
I wasn’t born to be an activist. Or an angry African. Quite the opposite, really. I was born to be the stereotypical ‘good, racist Afrikaner’ in Apartheid South Africa. My family supported Apartheid and all of them worked for the Apartheid regime at some stage in their lives. We lived off the fat of the Apartheid land. And for most part went through life nice and ignorant. Just the way they liked it.
I had everything a young boy could think of. Days playing in the streets with my friends. A bicycle to ride to school with. Playing sport on some of the best fields of dreams out there. Cool clothes that made me look like I just stepped out of of Miami Vice. A plate of unbelievable food every day – meat, potatoes and rice being staple food for Afrikaners. Friends and family everywhere around me. Good times. Fun times. Unreal times. Lying times.
My dad was a Brigadier in the South African Prison Services, and one of his last assignments was to look after political prisoners at Pollsmoor prison. We didn’t get along. Even when I was still “his (racist) little boy”. Both my sisters worked at the prison service at some stage of their lives and married guys who worked at the prison services. And my brother worked for the prison services on Robben Island – where Nelson Mandela was jailed. They have all left since then. Maybe realizing that the life we were told was real life wasn’t that real after all. And that it wasn’t that great for everyone living in South Africa.
I grew up in a home that did everything the Apartheid government wanted us to do. We were part of the Dutch Reformed Church – the Apartheid government in prayer. We went to Church every Sunday. To Sunday school. I got confirmed at a Dutch Reformed Church when I was 16 or something. We were the Church. I left the Dutch Reformed Church. And they have left me.
We watched rugby – then the sport of the white Afrikaner. We went to Newlands on a Saturday to watch our team play other white boys. We went to club rugby games to see our local white boys play other white boys from neighboring towns. I played rugby for my school and practiced almost every day. We played other white schools on a Saturday morning before we went to Newlands. I walked away from it for a while, but rugby stayed with me. Still loved it, but couldn’t face it. It changed when our national team won the World Cup in 1995 and we could all call it our team. But I now I know it was another tool under Apartheid before that beautiful day in 1994 when we had our first democratic elections. Politics on the field. And we didn’t even know it. I didn’t know it when I was a kid.
I went to school at Paarl Gymnasium – one of the best Apartheid schools in South Africa. I attended the University of Stellenbosch – the ‘brain trust‘ of the Apartheid policies and politics. We read the Apartheid government approved newspapers and watched their TV. I benefited from the education they provided and the money they paid my dad. I was made for a life supporting and working for the Apartheid government. I was a star pupil of the Apartheid system. And I didn’t even know it. But I should have.
I was well on my way to become one of them. I did everything they expected me to do. I was a young racist Afrikaner, ready to take my place in their world. Well, at least the small world within the white community in South Africa. But somehow it didn’t happen though.
Somewhere along the line things didn’t work out the way they planned. Maybe it was the fact that I poked fun at everything. Acted out Apartheid leaders on stage in one man shows at school. Half of the people laughing and the teachers staring at me not knowing if I was making a political statement or just being funny. I was just being funny. I didn’t know about politics. But I knew funny.
Maybe it was because my mother told me to question everything. To look beyond the obvious. Maybe it was just that the world wasn’t right. Even for a young kid it didn’t always seem just right. Why can’t I have black friends dad? Why can’t they come over to play? What are those shacks in the townships? Why don’t those kids have nice clothes dad? Why do they look so thin and dirty? See, there dad! Just on the other side of the fence if you look out the car window dad. Come on, you can’t not see them daddy! Why aren’t they allowed on the beaches dad? It’s just a beach, isn’t it? They are pretty funny when you talk to them dad. Really, just speak to them, you’ll see. I see and speak to them often at the station when I go to cricket games. Why do they ride in the other carriages dad? Looks a bit cramped in there. And the buses. Look dad! We have one of them working in our house. She looks after me when you aren’t here. She’s nice. She could be family. She is family dad. She gives nice hugs when I hurt my knee or cut my finger. Why do we call them “them” dad? They look like me. Eat like me. Play like me. They are me daddy…
Slowly but surely I became everything that Apartheid was against – an activist. An Angry African. Speaking out against their system. “Them” taking me in as one of ”their” own and becoming me. I am because they are. I became them. I am them. The Apartheid “them” becoming the people I saw as different. As the others. Instead of being the man they wanted me to be, I became the man I wanted to be. It hasn’t always been easy. It hasn’t always been fun. But it always felt right. From Stellenbosch to Seattle, Mali to Monterrey, and Lusaka to London – no matter where the road took me, it always felt right, and it always felt as if I belonged. I felt like this was what I was meant to be. Just me.
Why was it important to write about this? I don’t know. I hope I didn’t offend anyone. But it is important to know who we are. That we come from places we can’t always be proud of. That we have a history. I don’t know if it is important to know this about me. But it is for me. Maybe just to let you know that we aren’t always born into what we become. That we have choices. We can take the bad and the good and still be someone we can face when we look in the mirror. That we don’t have to be proud of everything in our past. But that we can take our past and own it. You can be born into hatred but still come out hugging the world. That’s the beauty of life – you can be who and what you want to be no matter where you come from. You decide. It’s easier than you think. It’s really your choice. Make it. Today.
September 20, 2008
Quick! Pull my finger!
Posted by Henk Campher under burp, children, culture, dad, daughters, family, fart, funny, girls, humor, kids, life, live, love, men, mom, parents, personal, wife, Wii | Tags: burp, children, family, fart, funny, girls, kids, life, love, manners, parenting |[15] Comments
We all have our roles in our little family. My wife is the one that holds it all together. The glue that we stick to. The level headed one. The one that looks after us. And the one we all run to when we bump our toe or just feel like a hug. She is the centre. The foundation. The pillar. The sun we spin around.
And I mean spin. The rest of us are slightly out of control. Spinning in all directions. Not adhering to rules like gravity or being a grown up parent. My poor wife. All she can do is look at us and shake her head. And shake her finger at us if it looks like the house might just cave in. Bring balance back to our world.
My role is clear. I am the crazy one. The one that gets them all worked up. Throwing them in the air. Racing them up the stairs. Carry them like a bag of potatoes. Jump on their beds. Dance crazy dances with them. Chase them around in the garden. Swing them too high. Play Wii with them and lose. Tickle them until they say “Pretty please with a cherry on top” – although I learnt that one from my wife. You know. The one that is more playmate than parent. The one that gets the “I can’t teach the girls to behave if you carry on like this” speech almost weekly. But I know she likes it. She laughs too often not to! And behind the pointy finger is a smile saying “You are impossible. And I love you for that”.
Talking about fingers. One of the skills I truly believe my girls should have is an ability to… hum… fart… I mean… pass wind on demand. It is a rare skill. You never know when it might come in handy. That’s why I taught them the “Pull my finger” trick.
It can be in the middle of a conversation. We can be talking about anything. “So, how was school my girl?”, I’ll ask. She’ll say, “Just fine, thanks dad.” I’ll follow up with a, “What did you do?” Back to her, “Well, we all…” An abrupt interruption, “Wait! Quick! Pull my finger!” General response, “Oh dad. You are disgusting!” But she’ll pull it in any case and then laugh at the result. I make them so proud.
And they’ll do it back. I might be busy drying the little princess right after her bath and she’ll say, “Hey, dad. Pull my finger!” And even if she can’t create the exact desired result… She’ll make the noise with her mouth and throw her head back and laugh. She makes me so proud. A real princess would be proud at her gracious manners and sophisticated etiquette.
The big angel is starting to get more control. We’ll be lying in on our Sunday morning music hour and she’ll go, “Dad! Quick! Pull my finger”. And she’ll do the deed under the duvet. Little angel feathers dropping off due to the lingering effect. Thank God she hasn’t learned the “Duvet over the head” trick yet. I am keeping that one for a special occasion.
My girls. They have beautiful refined fingers with magic in them.
But I have taught them another trick as well. The “Good one!” trick.
I can burp at will. Sometimes even do a little tune. Maybe for a special occasion I’ll sing them a “song”. Like “Happy birthday”. Good times. But I taught them to respect the burp.
A burp should not be wasted. It should be remembered. Honored in a way. It is a reminder of the good food that gave us this little gift. So I taught them to say “Good one!” if they burp and then we high five each other. For some or other reason my wife doesn’t join in the fun. She does roll her eyes and give us a wry smile though. But sometimes the girls get their timing slightly wrong…
We were eating our dinner. Another one of our many favorites made by the hands of their suffering mom. I think it was maple syrup chicken or goggas. We have so many favorites I can’t remember which one it was. We have favorites every day! Anyway, little princess wasn’t really behaving. Getting up and adjusting her chair the whole time. Messing all over the place. Eating slower than a sloth sleeping. We were trying to hurry her up. And she knows that at the table we need to have manners. It’s mom’s territory. It teaches them how to behave at school. And then she let out a huge burp…
My wife gave her “the look”. A serious look of disapproval. You don’t burp at the table. And if you do? Well, you know what you should say. So my wife looked at her with “the look” and said, “What do you say?” And little princess immediately shot back without blinking, “Good one!” She looked at me with a big smile and gave me a high five.
Boy. Did I get “the look” and the finger saying “You! See what I have to put up with? How can I teach the girl anything when you teach them this? What am I going to do with you three?” And then she just burst out laughing. And gave little princess a high five and more wise words, “Rather out than in I guess”.
My girls. They make me so proud. Now, pull my finger! Quick!
_________________________________
Note for South Africans: I also taught my girls this little rhyme…
Ouma en oupa sit op die stoep
Oupa gee ‘n harde poep
Ouma sê wat makeer?
Oupa sê my maag is seer
Ouma sê dan eet ‘n peer
Oupa sê dan poep ek weer
Remember that one? Hehe!
September 17, 2008
The little girl in the blue house
Posted by Henk Campher under abuse, child, children, dad, daughters, family, girl, girls, happiness, hope, house, I am because you are, kids, life, live, love, parents, people, personal, school, snow, street, wife | Tags: children, cold, friends, girl, growing up, house, housing, hug, kids, life, love, memories, neglect, parenting, school |[20] Comments
I always walk the same way to the train station. I take the shortest route. I have too. Way too early to walk one meter further than I have to. Or one minute longer than what is needed. There is another route. Slightly longer. But all the time in the world if it is so bloody early in the morning. My normal route is an easy walk. Turn right, then a quick left and straight down to the station. A quick and easy 20 minute stroll. And who said I don’t get enough exercise… But today I had to go the slightly longer route. Turn left, turn right and down the slightly longer walk to the station. Not by much. Just about 5 minutes added. But sometimes the longer route brings more than just a longer walk. And this morning I got more than I wanted. Another reason why I never like walking that route. A reminder. A memory.
My oldest daughter always does the “left turn” walk. Her friend from across the street walks with her to the bus stop. They pick up another friend along the way and off they go. But not this morning. The girl from across the road didn’t feel too well so she couldn’t walk with my daughter. Dad duties called. I am the backup. So off we went. On our left turn.
We were joking as we walked. Doing our “home boy” walk down the street. Me doing funny walks and funny voices to show her how I was going to embarrass her in front of her friend who has never met me. Doing my typical dad stuff. We got to the house. I gave her a hug and a kiss and watched her walk to meet her friend. And off I went. Taking my right turn down the road. The slightly longer road.
I put my iPod on and was listening to A Fine Frenzy when I walked past the blue house. And it brought back memories of the little girl who lived there. The little girl in the blue house.
She was the first friend my oldest daughter made at her new school when we moved here. They were in the same class. Hung out together. I saw her often. At the school. Or at the park. Or just in the streets when we were walking. But she was always there when we took my daughter to school. Running to great her friend. She was scrawny just like my daughter. But she was a little bit too thin. A little bit too pale.
In summer she always had just a t-shirt on. And in winter. A very worn and tatty thin little jacket. And trust me. It gets damn cold over here in Boston in winter. I remember seeing her with her arms folded to try and keep some heat in that little body of hers. You could see she was cold. But that was all she had for winter.
Her mother was always well dresses. With the latest fashion. Clothes and accessories she bought at the mall. She looked well looked after. And warm. Not like her little girl. But we didn’t see her at school often. Or anywhere for that matter. She didn’t walk with her little girl that often.
And they stayed just down the road from the school. It looked like a pretty house from the outside. That blue house where the girl stayed.
I often took my girls to the park at the school. And we’ll see her there often. On her own. On the swings. And she’ll be so happy to see my daughters. She was always so good to my little one. Running up to her and giving her a hug and a kiss and playing with her. She was a nice little girl. That little girl from the blue house.
My daughter always told us about her friend. And how she shared her snacks at school with her because she never had snacks. So my wife put in a few extra snacks for two. Never mentioned it to the little girl. Didn’t want her to feel odd. My daughter just shared because that is how she is. It was her friend. No questions.
And one day she told us that the girl was so exited about going to visit her dad in Arkansas. Her parents were divorced. And she lived with her mother and boyfriend in the blue house. The boyfriend had a nice BMW convertible. Nice car. Pretty new. They obviously had some money. Just not always for the little girl. But she was excited. She was going to visit her dad.
And then we saw her during the holiday. When she was meant to be at her dad. It was the first time I really saw her sad. The smile wasn’t there. She spoke to my daughter in a low sad voice and I didn’t want to ask too many questions. Didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable. I just wanted her to be a little girl. Playing with her friend. And having fun the way 10-year old girls are meant to have fun. So I let them talk and watched as they started playing and giggling. And the smile started coming back. She was with her friend.
The odd thing was that apart from that day I always saw her smile. A big old child smile. I never heard her complain. Not in front of me in any case. She always looked happy. But you could see that there was something missing. You just had to look carefully.
I always hug and kiss my girls. No matter where we are. When we drop them off at school. When I say goodbye in the morning. When they go to sleep at night. Or just because we feel like a hug and a kiss. Which is often. No matter where we are. And this little girl saw this. Saw how I hugged my girls. And she wanted one too.
I used to see her looking at me and my daughter when we hug. And then one day she came up to me when I took my girl to her school and asked for a hug. She was a little bit shy about asking. But I just gave my girl a hug and she looked at me with her tatty top with the long sleeves and peeked at me. “Can I get a hug please?” “Of course!” I said. I gave her a big old hug. And she hugged back. Hugging maybe a little longer and harder than what I expected. Almost as if she didn’t get a lot of hugs and would like to get hugs more often. She was only ten.
And that was how it was. Whenever she saw me she would come running up to me and give me a hug. And I’ll hug her back. And I’ll give her a smile and ask how she was doing. It became a standard thing. I never really thought much about it. I knew she wanted a hug and I gave her one. We can do with more hugs in this world. And I didn’t think that she got too many hugs elsewhere in any case.
And then one day she was just gone. Just gone. Her mother packed their bags in the middle of the night and just disappeared. Gone. Not even a goodbye. Not even a last hug. Just gone with her tatty little top. We never knew what happened to her. How she is doing or how she is feeling. Is she with her dad? Is she okay? Is she happy? Is she being a kid? Did she get a warmer jacket? Is she still smiling those big old smiles of hers? Is she getting any hugs? Or is she still playing alone in the park?
Time passed and memories started fading. We’ll mention her every now and again and just wonder.
And then we started looking at buying a house. And one of the houses that was on the market was the blue house. The blue house where the little girl stayed. So off we went to look at the house. Thinking that maybe we can buy it and make it our little house. Until we opened the front door and walked in.
My wife and myself just looked at each other when we walked in. I knew what she was thinking. It was my thoughts to.
The house stank. It was dirty. So dirty. Everything was a mess. Stuff lying on the floor everywhere. Clothes. Plates. Old food. Ashtrays overflowing. Wet spots. I have never, ever seen anything like this anywhere. And I have been to some places… It has been like this for a long, long time. Our shoes got stuck on the sticky dirt that was on the floors. All the rooms were in a mess. You couldn’t even see what color the walls or carpets were. It was brown. From dirt and cigarette smoke. I felt nauseous. Sick. The ex-boyfriend was lying in bed downstairs watching something on a big screen television. On his hugewater bed. With plates and empty bottles and cigarettes lying all around him. A pig in a pigsty.
We went up the stairs to look at the real bedrooms. And we walked into the room that would have been that little girls room. It was a mess. Just a mess. No place for a little girl. Any little girl. Dirty. Filthy. Disgusting. You could see little things she must have tried to do to make it a little girl’s room. A little picture here and there. A ripped out poster. A wonky little table where she must have tried to study. Some girlie jewelery lying on the floor amongst the dirt that she must have forgotten to pack in the haste. But it was covered in a floor that ran skew. Holes in the floors and roof. And cold. And this was in winter. No heating. This was the room of the little girl with the big smile.
My wife and myself just looked at each other. We knew what each of us were thinking. We just wanted to get out. Just wanted to forget that we ever came. That we ever knew that little girl. And that she lived there. Her little room in the blue house.
We sat in the car and just stared at nothing for a while. And then she said it. “She lived in that house.” That’s all that needed to be said. We knew. The little girl in the blue house.
And walking past that house this morning reminded me of her. That little girl in the blue house. Made me think. Again. How did she do it? How did she manage? How did she remain a little girl in that house? How long can she be that girl with the big old kid smile? How long before she falls through the cracks? Is she strong enough? Where will she find the love she needs? The hugs she deserves? How is the little girl from the blue house doing?
The little girl from the blue house. I hope you remember me. I hope you remember those hugs. I just wish I hugged you a little harder and a little longer.
