I sat on the wooden chair in the cool living room, happy to be back in the guest position. My feet couldn't reach the floor, so I dangled my bruised and scratched legs while I waited for my "treatment", trying to arrange the crocheted pillow under my bottom so I wouldn't freeze (because in the country rooms it was cool even in the hottest summers). I even had time to break the shell off my bruised knee a few days ago, to sweeten the wait. And to "evaluate" the pocket full of stones of the bib overalls, which were barely...

I've always loved them. And they were never absent from my childhood. Knitted, crocheted, made of felt, fabric, macrame or wool, berets completed our little outfits with sophisticated accents. Along with the clothes sewn from grandma's fabrics and by her hands, always with strappy shoes or simple ankle boots, sometimes with a matching bag, they are part of times that I miss. I miss them a lot. They were the adorably accessorized clothes that I wore when visiting, to Sunday service or on (some) trips. Once, I was convinced that a cream beret with a "tail" brought me luck during...

The morning we found out it had snowed for the first time was the only one of the year when we jumped out of bed without any further requests. And the first in a long line of time that seemed like wasted time, the time spent at school when the snow was so close. Also, during the long recess (yes, we allowed ourselves one longer than 5 minutes), we would rush to measure the snow, the thickness of the ice, and the potential places where we could build bunkers. We would return to the classroom covered in snow and, since...

If I were Romania, I wouldn't accept wishes from just anyone. Only sincere ones would touch me, only real ones would make me happy, said with a smile, I would feel them to my soul only those that come from People who feel Romanian. Or who are People, simply, whatever language they speak. If I were Romania, I would like to be able to somehow reject the messages of those who steal from me every day, of those who do not respect my forest and land, who defile my history, who disturb my waters and pollute my air, who are...

7 years ago, Iulia from Iași was not born. Nor was Adela, from Bucharest. And neither were several hundred, thousands of other blonde, brown-haired, redheaded or brunette little girls, with or without braided pigtails. Ema saw the first Sipet de mădef dress on a friend's little girl. She thought nostalgically then about a little girl of her own, who would play among dolls - with daddy by her side, as a prince, dressed in such a dress. But she had two little boys and things seemed to be already set. Someone, however, had other plans and now daddy often turns...

It happened on an ordinary day, when a new dress in adorable colors had to bear a name. And since Sipet de sidef is a story, I waited with bated breath, watching the dress resting neatly on the hanger, to find out the continuation of this new page. Because we had to make the country proud that it had appeared, we called one of our little muses to bring it to life and…to inspire us. But because absolutely everything happens naturally to us and because we don't want to fit into any pattern, it's all a game. Including the photo...

Our children waste important hours of their lives watching cartoons, when many of the characters are scarier than any dramatic event in real life. More terrible than any image children could have of death, if they were patiently and gently explained to them what it represents. Open and natural. Discussions about the death of someone close are gracefully avoided, they are taboo subjects, as if the child should understand that you simply disappear from the earth at a certain point. And that's it. Somewhere, the stories of lives whose endings cannot be explained remain suspended in the air. Earth, coffin,...

Every story begins with "Once upon a time..." In our case, every day's stories begin with a phone call. With a voice. Or with a few words, always different, arranged in warm and friendly messages. Some little girls know exactly which dress is missing from the picture they imagine. Flavia is one of them. Knowing her age, I imagined her even before I saw her, delicate, serene and with sun-kissed hair. Because I thought of this color combination for a certain profile of little girl and, with small, equally adorable exceptions, the recipients of the Girl with a Pearl are...

Your call was the first, a little after sunrise, like every day of May 22 (and not only, because it's not just me anymore!) but I was getting Anna ready for school, so I didn't answer. Then, my friends started congratulating me. As usual, I postponed calling you, as I always do, as if knowing that you understand, that you forgive, that you are patient, that you will respond quickly, when I have time. Because I know you are there. Because I believe you are eternal. And you are not, I am starting to feel it, my age is two...

I haven't picked them in a long time. For too long, they haven't caught my attention, among so many colors and scents. It's as if they knew that the end of March would come, when I would pick them up and count them, one by one, as I never do, with the hundreds of flowers from which I make bouquets that delight. And that move. Yesterday it was mandatory that none of them be plus or minus. It seems like it would matter. Maybe? On a seemingly ordinary Sunday, when the rain started to fall, cold and unfriendly, just as...

2016. Thea turned 10. We are a little wiser and together we celebrated our 11th birthday. Anna, towards the end of it, entered a new stage, after turning 7 years old…at home. 3 years of Sipet de sidef. A year in which the girls grew up beautifully and harmoniously, they didn't need much medicine, except for various syrups (from time to time) and sea water, and the adults around them, us and the grandparents, creaking in places, faced the multiple challenges. A year in which we saw old friends again and met beautiful people. And in which we chose to...

Dear Anna, Today is your birthday. It hasn't started to snow yet, that was only in 2009, when you chose to come into the world. We had the whitest winter back then. And the whitest 30 nights. Just 30, in which you took a terrible pleasure in talking, as soon as daddy, your little sister and all the neighbors in the neighborhood fell asleep. 30 nights in which, you, huddled in the pink and fluffy blanket and I, dressed in what I could manage to put on, stood in front of the wide open window, letting the flakes that were...