Tag Archives: childhood

Paint me a picture

It all begun back in the olden days, before I blogged or had a very posh camera or Instagram was even invented…


My son started painted oil paintings.

He painted one at two years old, one at three and one just before he turned four.

Last week he asked for a new canvas to complete his quadriptych ( his favorite number is four as you all know. )

As soon as it arrived he went to work.

Today we decided to hang them.


I laid them out to what I thought was the best grouping, but the artist disagreed.
And arranged them the way he wanted.


From top left, clockwise:
Mess made by a tornado (Little J, 2010)
Tornado (Little J, 2011)
Mess made by volcanic eruption (Little J, 2011)
Erupting Volcano (Little J, 2012)


I am so proud of him.
And the fact that he spend most of the evening sitting under his art work makes me think he is rather proud of himself too.

Here is all you need:

Today was good. Today was fun. Tomorrow is another one.

~~Dr. Seuss

Little White Whale

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Just like me

As you all know I grew up with my grandparents.

On the weekends they often had their friends over, Mr. and Mrs. Kavcic. My grandma used to work with the lady and her husband was a farmer. Good, honest people. They usually arrived after dinner and I would sit at the table while they had coffee and played catch up. I loved eavesdropping on their discussions about politics and economy. Then I would say my goodnights and be send to bed. The game of cards was about to begin.

They would play tarok. It is a very interactive and competitive game and because teams are made up differently each time the banter between players is brilliant. It was at least in our house. I used to sneak out of bed, walk across the long hallway of our old apartment and hide behind the closed kitchen door. And listen. They were so funny and full of life. Not the kind of people I knew, serious and old-fashioned, with strict rules and all around adult and responsible behavior. They laughed and shouted, they teased each other and banged on the table as cards fell down on the antique wood.

It was a very rare time for me to peak into lives of my parents. Sure I lived with them and after my grandfather retired when I was six the three of us were always together. But it was old school parenting. They never played with me tea parties or did crafts. I followed my grandpa around doing things he did or liked. I played by myself. Or went outside to the playground and played with other children. It was different. And sometimes I think that it might have been better.

I often wonder if my son really thinks of me as an adult. Sure he says I am old, a lot. But does he understand the difference between adults and children? Like the other day when he said to me we should punish daddy for being late. Or ignoring my plea to put his socks on for the 13th time. Was I like that? I doubt I would have gotten away with it.

A few weeks ago my husband invited his colleague and old friend whom he has not seen in years over for dinner while he was visiting town. It was close to Little J’s bed time so after we ate I excused us and went upstairs to get him ready for the night. He brushed his teeth and put his PJ’s on and I asked if he wants to go down to say good bye to Daddy’s friend.

From the top of the stairs I heard him say:

“It was nice meeting you. Hope you come back to visit us soon. Good night.”

He pinched some popcorn and came back up. I tucked him in and kissed him good night.

I think my grandpa would be proud.

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Something is fishy

I grew up with my grandparents.

They were older. Not the type of parents that run with you in the park or play frisbee. They were old school. The type that told me to play in my room while they did adult things. But they made up for it with love and attention that most children can only dream off.

We spend time together in the evenings and played lots of board games and chess. My grandpa was brilliant, my grandma… Well let’s just say the woman has a heart of gold. And luck with cards.

I must have been about my son’s age when they bought me a memory game. It had 50 pairs, they were made of hard plastic and came in a pretty blue box. The images were graphic design like and the other side was just plain white. My grandma and I played it almost every day. I always won. That was probably one of the reasons they thought I was a genius. Which I might be. But the reason I always won was because I cheated. Kind of. See the design that was printed on the squares was very colorful. And as they were printing them, tiny little specks of paint splattered here and there. I memorized the ones that had a splash of purple, a green dot or a silver line going across it. They were so hard to see but I would scan the squares as we laid them face down and knew where at least five pairs were. The rest was easy. I am sure children have better memory then women eligible for a free senior’s bus pass.

I never really came clean about that. As years went by I started winning chess games with grandpa, card games with them both and Risk. On my own merit. The funny thing is that even as an adult when visiting them, grandma would pull out the memory game and I would remember the splash of purple, green dot and the silver line. Perhaps I have good memory after all.

The other day Little J asked if I wanted to play Go fish. He laid all the carton fish down, set up a purple boat for me, a green one for Bruce the Shark, Orange one for Simmy Sim and blue one for him. He took turns for him and his imaginary friend and I helped the stuffed shark and fished for my own win. Our glass dinning table is by no means small, but Simmy Sim is rather clumsy it seems and he kept knocking the fish down, which Little J was kind enough to pick up from the floor. From under the table. Glass table. See through glass table…

My 4 year old won the game. A few times in a row. He might be a genius. Trust me, it takes one to know one.

Bruce the Shark trying hard not to eat the fish. Photo is from my Instagram.

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