Whenever I'm in the downstairs restroom in my parents' house, I always think back to a specific day shortly before I turned six. Visitors ALWAYS ask us about that particular room, too.
I'm not really sure what my parents were thinking when they broke out the acrylic paints and gave 7-year-old not-yet-an-uncle Punk and 5-year-old me each a brush and palette.
Can you tell Punk has mad art skills and loves dinosaurs and I have a lifelong love for Smokey the Bear and far less talent? All these facts remain true today.
My parents also contributed to the decor. Though, since they worked more slowly, Punk and I dominated the wall space.
Over the years my excitement about the room has waxed and waned. At the height of my embarrassment (late high school and early college), I begged them to let me paint the walls again- with a thick coat of primer and then some standard color latex. All requests were denied.
The room now charms me yet again. Maybe now because I can clearly see in my childish work exactly how adoring and supportive my parents have always been.