What was it that I wanted to say

... is a perfect line when you think the beauty is in the talking. And each and every minute of every conversation with every human being should be filled with words.

The thing is, it shouldn't.
(majority of the people who know me would be in shock, reading this as for them I seem to be the essence of spoken words; well, I like talking, true, and I talk a lot... but the ones who know me really well, they know:)

As the best way to know if you're in sync with someone is to keep silent. Not forever, that would be dreadful. But for a minute, or two.
It worked for me.

Sadly, that didn't secure the happy ever after ending. What does, though? Appreciation of what you have, regardless? Maybe. But then, one ends up avoiding one's own reflection, which is quite a thing, on a long term at least.

I think you just should never stop trying. The moment you feel perfectly comfortable and 'used to', that moment is the snowball to finish line. And I don't mean feeling good. I mean stop trying.


So, my most up-to-date recipe for a successful relationship (bear in mind there's no 'long-term' reference here, so it might as well apply to few months as to few years as, who knows, to a half of one's lifetime) is this: test the silence and feel good with your own reflection in a mirror.

Simple, isn't it?:)


Disclaimer (did I mention talkativeness earlier?:) - I refuse to believe each relationship should be successful. I refuse to believe there's black and white approach when defining a relationship - in each one of them you'll find something good and something bad. If you want to keep it going, follow my recipe, that's all. If you don't, maybe it's for the best...

Inspiration can come from everywhere

I'm looking at my screen, reading the 'Have an inspiring day' text I just got from a friend of mine. How to reply to something like that?
There are so many things I would like to do and so many I should do, and they hardly match today.

I could pretend I'm not here but that won't stop the world bothering me. Obviously, if it did, I would complain even more. All this 'I want to hide and cry over my life' attitude is a show-off. As I 'm truly grateful for all that bothering I get, for each and every MumMumMumMumMum I get. Because in 10 years' time I will miss it. A lot.

So, deep sigh and off I go. How inspiring loading a washing machine can be:)?
And then it hits me. What if there was no kids clothes to load that machine with... Would I be that pretentious over-intelectual individual with sour soul and a grimace replacing a genuine smile (in fear of wrinkles)?

20 minutes later. Working on a document (reading other people's bios can be inspiring or depressing, depending how you look at it), I have a rare opportunity to see my team colouring a picture, hand in hand, in perfect harmony (that moment, and I really mean a moment as it won't last long, the moment is truly amazing). And then my Mini-Man says: 'I need a piece of paper to draw you a picture, Mum'. 3 seconds later he comes with something that makes me think he is some kind of Picasso, but starting from the end of Pablo's career and going backwards. The picture is clear and precise but abstract at the same time. 'It's a sad monster', says the artist and hands me his latest masterpiece. Before I manage to thank him, the LMSP comes, glances at the paper and immediately says: 'It looks like a dead plant with a mouth.' There. Each opinion matter. Some more cut-through than the others.

The artist seems to be oblivious to the deadly critique and comes back a minute later with another result of his creative work. 'And this is an angry monster.' LMSP looks at it and comments: 'How can it be an angry one. It has a baby face.'

And the world stops. When I realise an 8-year old knows babies are never angry... Something I wasn't aware of until not so long ago.

We are reading

The Book Week

Yes, it's the world books' day today but at some places, including my monsters' school, they extended it to the whole week. So it's a full 5-day celebration of the written word. And the joy it brings to our lives if only we let it in.


Also, this is the first week in the last 52 we kind of blend in.
When the little one's being devastated we have nothing to read on the bus (10-minute journey, a.k.a. eternity in his opinion; with special relativity theory being in place for 112 years now who's going to argue with him about it? Certainly not me), like he was this morning, we're blessed with genuine smiles and semi-adoration from other passengers.
In truth, we are also slowly making progress on the let's-be-polite-and-use-our-library-voices-shall-we route. Which helps.
 By the way, realising the fact that a concept of a library voice is clearer than a concept of an indoor voice for a not-so-typical 3.5-year old, realising that is both amazing (that's me) and slightly intriguing (some unfulfilled psychologists, maybe).
Not to mention, it is another example of blending.

Actually, we look almost 100% normal.


Looking forward to a singing week now. As then we will be again a perfect illustration of a casual modern family, strolling down or up the hills in a park. With me singing quietly the shape of you, the SpiderGirl creating her own song. And the Mini-Man, crying his heart out for 3 kings who were riding the bumpy, bumpy road, regardless of seasons.

Seven and a little bit of void

Anyone's wondering how counting to 12 should go in a year of the rooster?


According to my I-know-it!-I-know-it! expert (he has 1350+ days of experience on 🌏, who'd dare to question that:), it's:

one two three four five six seven eleven and twelve

Logically, it must be the case.
It's all about the unexpected, the shortcuts and the rhyming... 2017 in a flash. Or flesh. Whichever you prefer.

The extraordinary race

Today we were witnessing an exemplary of courage, bravery and speed. Two contestants, more different to each other than you could assume, were racing in a 15-metre, a.k.a. gigantic and spectacular run among sofa, chair, desk lamp, and a bookcase.

Everybody won.

Everybody shared the same medal, accepting well-deserved congratulations.

Everybody was happy. For that very short moment of excitement and pure joy, there was magic.
I guess this is what we are all, ultimately, are looking for in life. The magic:)

44th

Today is the 44th day of the year. That's what the bus driver told me. Well, not him really, the info display on the bus, showing time, date, route and trivia stuff, like how many days are there left till the end of 2017 (321, interesting, as it's the exact reverse version of the, you guessed it, 123), whose names day it is (Greg and Kate), and finally which day of the year it is (my LMSP would know by now anyway; she really likes finding out solutions to math problems...)

To me, number 44 is quite specific. Not only because it's a combination of two exactly the same digits. But also because of that romantic poem written approximately 200 years ago by one of the 3 most significant Romantic poets of Polish literature. It was telling a story of the sort of chosen one who would save whoever needed to be saved. And that saviour's name was 44. So, it's important. It's the number and the name of the hero.

The day was not that heroic (unless you count my genuine attempts to stay calm and be brave at the dentist; you'd have to ask them whether successful, really, as my opinion is logically bias). But it meant something.

I had a chance to see people on the street. Not stare at them but notice the world around, the faces not so smiley, the talking not so light and positive, the air not so fresh and mild. All that was fascinating and sad at the same time.
Yet, when the false bomb alert came into equation, the one I was accidentally in the middle of, none of that mattered. The funny part was, I knew nothing of that.

Sometimes, not knowing is the best that can happen to you. Even if it is the last thing that happens to you.

Big black dog

- Can you please draw me a big black dog, please? - he says, giving me this 'I love you so why don't you do what I am asking you to? Nicely?' kind of look (ok, I'm trying here not to become this insanely fixated mother, who thinks and talks about no one else but her magnificent children. I'm trying... He's not that manipulative, he's cheeky and has these ideas that put him into trouble but he's a good boy, deep down inside he is a good one, so fingers crossed I won't spoil him...:)

5 minutes later we end up with a fox. It looks quite realistic, apart from the fact it is black. And nowhere near the dog some of us expected it to be.

- Looks like big dogs are out of my reach for now - I say - Is it ok if we have a fox instead?

He thinks about it before saying:
- How about a small black dog? Can you draw me a small one, please?

All of a sudden, trying to stay sane and not in awe of how genius a 3.5-year old can be, all that trying is very challenging.  Almost impossible. And for a short moment, it actually is.



(Turns out that small animals are within my artistic reach. Black dog in petite, anyone?:)